The Guts Of It Poem by James McLain
The Guts Of It
Non whimsical with this attitude push try.
Dirty hands
up to the elbows, dried blood.
Gas full of gas most guts are.
Gas that smells of the paste trapped inside.
Stabbing O how I stab
freedom from Eve Sir action just the stab.
Up rooted by the bush falling trees.
Have exposed one them all.
And that smell won't washout so why try.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Best Poems
Best Member Poems
Best Classical Poems
New Poems
New Poets
Best Member Poets
Best Classical Poets
Explore Poems
Explore Poets
Poem Of The Day
Love Poems
Baby Poems
Death Poems
Sad Poems
Birthday Poems
Wedding Poems
Nature Poems
Sorry Poems
Hero Poems
Poetry E-Books
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
4/26/2024 2:34:39 AM # 1.0.0.1119
