| » Poem: Work |
Work
written by Genocide Reaper01:26 AM 11/12/04| My fingers bleed, my hands blistered. Iv been working for hours on end. And this is my power my pride. I'll work until I'm near death, exaustion, stumbleing from weakness, giving everything to get out the excess. Energy used in doing my job. Acomplishing the given task, for the man that helped mold my mask. This is the way its done, all or nothing. No time to stand around and wait, you better get your ass off of the ground and make those fingers bleed. |
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Author's footnotes and comments on this Poem:
Yes, when I work I work my fucking balls off.. It builds character.. and strength.
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This Poem has been viewed 377 times
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| » Comments / Feedback | by dacode05 (11-12-2004 - 02:29 AM)
| Tell me your not digging a grave.... |
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