If you looked with your heart
You would see the real me
But you look with your eyes
You see the betreal in me
You touch with your fingers
Instead of your mind
Your ears are deaf
Your eyes are blind
If you feel me with passion
Your fingers will burn
The paper drops faster
Than your children will learn
Let the sun set
It's doing it's job
Let the girl rest
While she sobs and she sobs.
And she sobs
Mark Eyre's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Unborn by Mark Eyre )
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