So many things remind me of you:
Things we used to talk about;
Things we used to do.
But now your gone and I;m still here
All I know is the taste of fear.
All alone in a troubled life;
I only wanted to be your wife.
You chose a path I could not take;
Your love for me was just a fake.
But the past is gone and tomorrows not here.
I hope your well and happy my dear.
I miss you so much but afraid to cry
Afraid if I start my eyes will never dry.
I have to move on and happiness find.
I just hope next time I am not so blind.
2006-08-30 15:33:40
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answer #1
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answered by noneofyourbizwax 3
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The Poets: By Longfellow
O ye dead Poets, who are living still
Immortal in your verse, though life be fled,
And ye, O living Poets, who are dead
Though ye are living, if neglect can kill,
Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill,
With drops of anguish falling fast and red
From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head,
Ye were not glad your errand to fulfil?
Yes; for the gift and ministry of Song
Have something in them so divinely sweet,
It can assuage the bitterness of wrong;
Not in the clamor of the crowded street,
Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,
But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.
2006-08-30 22:22:52
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answer #2
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answered by c_dawg_123 2
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One of my favorites by Sir Philip Sidney
It is most true, that eyes are formed to serve
The inward light, and that the heavenly part
Ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve,
Rebels to Nature, strive for their own smart.
It is most true, what we call Cupid's dart
An image is, which for ourselves we carve;
And, fools, adore in temple of our heart,
Till that good god make Church and churchman starve.
True, that true Beauty, Virtue is indeed,
Whereof this beauty can be but a shade,
Which elements with mortal mixture breed;
True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made,
And should in soul up to our country move:
True, and yet true that I must Stella love.
2006-08-31 06:36:31
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answer #3
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answered by Roswellfan 3
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