You may think the world is in your eye, but still
That does not mean that it is my soul you kill
You make me do things I feel I have no will
Now the very thought of you makes me ill
Sometimes I wake up, I find I cant see or hear,
Doc says it must be somethin in the atmosphere
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DraganaMaster's Journal
Songwriting, letting out feelings, (without crying) & not giving 2 much info...
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Lauren_Lover
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Piken Community Member 
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Six humans trapped by happenstance,in bleak and bitter cold,
each one possesed a stick of wood ,or so the storys told.
Their dying fire in need of logs the first man held his back,
for their faces round the fire,he noticed one was black.
The next man looking cross the way saw one not of his church,
and couldnt bring himself to give the fire the stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered clothes,he gave his coat a hitch,
why should his log be used to warm the idle rich.
The rich man just sat back and thought of the wealth he had in store,
and how to keep what he earned from the lazy, shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire passed from sight,
for all he saw in his stick of birch was a chance to spite the white.
The last man of this forlorn group did not exept for gain,
giving only to those who gave was how he played his game.
Their logs held tight in deaths still hands was proof of human sin
They didnt die cold without-they died from cold within!