Running Out of Time

September 2, 2008
By
More by this author
These hands are growing old,
They're running out of time.
My skin gets cold
Without my sense of rhyme.

Wrinkles grow to my forehead,
A hunch grows in my back.
I lay here in my bed
And think of what it is I lack.

My words aren't accepted.
What is it that I need?
None will be excepted,
Give me ideas to feed.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback