What happens,
When you run out of friends.
You’ve used up the ones,
Who were there to defend.
There are thousands,
In the front,
With friends,
To spare.
And those,
In the back,
With nothing,
But themselves.
In the middle ground,
You hold your own,
You hold your ground.
In the middle ground,
You hold your own,
You hold your ground.
But for how long?
The ghosts come crawling,
Back to you.
All of your pain,
You thought you were through.
By standing in the middle ground.
2007-08-23
18:30:16
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9 answers
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asked by
Anonymous
in
Arts & Humanities
➔ Poetry