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Too Long, Too Little, Too Late

Playing games with my mind,
Leading on this heart so blind,
Devious tricks fooling with my head,
I'm secretly longing for what will never be said.

For now I must come to understand,
That it will not be me that is holding your hand,
Yet why is my picture still on your wall,
Yet why will I run whenever you call?

Now I need to try and move on,
From what had never begun,
My heart still filled with 'could have bins',
Rolling off my tounge.

I'm made to see through wiser eyes,
That it could not have been,
But I'd have been far happier,
Just living in my dream.

By Marc.C.Gillings

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  • Re-invention silver member
    April 4, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    For now I must come to understand,
    That it will not be me that is holding your hand,
    Yet why is my picture still on your wall,
    Yet why will I run whenever you call?


    wow... your poetry converts me to know I'm not theo nly one going thru this shit... man that stanza almost made me cry... I am so dumb.... I feel what you feel cu'z I've always been there...
    good write...


  • D.s
    April 4, 2008
    Edit | Reply

    Lovely

    Just lovely.