sorrows and endless woes,
dulled by bitter drops of beer.
Pains like grains of sand,
slip through fingers and minds.
Hours drowned, around,
fag burnt tables.
And there in the toilet,
you'll find them,
draining there dulled pains,
time and time again.
brief moments of escape,
found in the lakes,
of the pub toilet,
many a mans lost dream,
found in trickling streams.
So you can even turn...bodily functions into feeling-filled, saddening, but enjoyable pieces of writing with rich, well-worded imagery, eh, Vincey? I'm proud to know you and your work, my lad. Now c'mon, do try to cheer yourself up, somehow. An unhappy Vincent Turner makes for an unhappy Gina as well. Warm regards (with a cheek bulging with tongue!) , Gina.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hi Vincent, yes I agree, you men do pour your hearts down the toilet of loves pain, rather a lot, but so do us girls occasionally. A really honest piece of your soul. I hope your pain drain runs clear soon. 10 from Tai, hung over but eyes dry.