In Ballarat Where History Don't Fade
In Ballarat where history don't fade
They still honour the Eureka Stockade,
The miners who fought some of them even died
For their rights to them that for years they had been denied
The Town of Ballarat known far and wide
And the people there in their history take pride
Their ancestors fought against their oppressors laws
And even took up arms for their worthy cause.
The name of Peter Lalor they revere
He led the miners fight and conquered fear
But for his fame a huge price he did pay
He lost an arm on that historic day.
The miners were defeated in the bloody fight
They succumbed to the Government forces greater might
But they won their rights for which they went to war
And the story of their bravery travelled far.
In Ballarat where history was made
They still revere the men of the stockade
Who fought against the forces of the crown
Long years ago in their historic town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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On The Flag Of The Southern Cross
On the flagpost in the freshening winds the flag of the Southern Cross
That brave workers once fought under does flap and wave and toss
In Ballarat in Australia where history was made
For their rights brave men died fighting at the Eureka Stockade
The Southern Cross above where they fought in the southern winds did blow
There history was created one hundred and fifty four years ago
The happening at Ballarat became known of Worldwide
Some of the miners who fought the Government troops were badly injured and some even died
For workers rights in Ballarat the price in human blood was paid
For the rights of a fair go it did not seem a fair trade
Each time I see the flag of the Southern Cross Ballarat comes to mind
The miners there who fought for workers rights were of the bravest kind
That great flag has a history for historians to recall
It surely stands for workers rights and a fair go for all.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Eureka Stockade
The Bard stopped at Footscray
on the road to Ballarat
researching The Eureka Stockade
imagined the boys
manning the barricades
police bullets flying
hoisting the Southern Cross
and dying.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Rememberance Day
On remembrance day we honour all
Each gave their best enduring call
God bless each one for being there
All our service men did their share.
Soldiers young and soldiers old
Fought the war brave and bold
They fought in Air, Land and Sea
If not for them where would we be.
Some lived while others died
As they fought side by side
They fought many a day and night
Their mission sure their spirits bright.
The loved ones bore the greatest pain
So many thoughts will never wane
We're proud of all the forces who
Fought for the Red, White and Blue.
We'll never let their special day
Their time of honour slip away
Though we may not know each name
We thank all the forces just the same.
'Wrote for November 11 th'
poem by Hazel Connelly
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Springhill Mining Disaster
Bono: like to...Id like to try a song that I think weve only played once before, so. this is a city that a...a lot of irish people came to this city, right? so this time...this irish...t
Irish people came as rock and roll band, okay? so...but this is a folk song. its like...the irish kinda hold america in a very special place because, for over a hundred years or more, irish have come over here to find work and find a future. and they brouught with them songs, old irish folk songs that became old american folk songs. and, I hope maybe wed leave behind some songs one day. this is a song written by peggy seeger. its a song...i wished Id heard this song on the raidio during the miners strike in england a few years ago. this is called springhill mining disaster.
In the town of springhill nova scotia
Down in the dark of the cumberland mine
Theres blood on the coal, and the miners lie
In roads that never saw sun or sky
Roads--
Bono: shut up for a second, will you? stop whistling cause Im not in the beatles, okay? its u2 here.
In the town of springhill
They dont sleep easy
Often the earth will tremble and roll
When the earth is restless
Miners die
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Listen to the shouts of the black faced miner
Listen to the call of the rescue team
We have no water, light or bread
So were living on songs and hope instead
Living on songs and hope instead
In the town of springhill nova scotia
Down in the dark of the cumberland mine
Theres blood on the coal, and the miners lie
In roads that never saw sun or sky
Roads that never saw sun nor sky
In the town of springhill
Dont sleep easy
Often the earth will tremble and roll
When the earth is restless
Miners die
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bono: thanks for your patience. thank you.
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Duellists
He threw down a glove you made the mistake
Of picking it up now youre gone
The choosing of guns or fighting with swords
The choice of weapons is done
Hell tear you apart as soon as you start
You know you dont have a chance.
Chorus
Oh...oh...fight for the honour
Fight for the splendour
Fight for the pleasure
Oh...oh...fight for the honour
Fight for the splendour
Fight for your life!
Ready to start the duel begins the best man wins in the end.
A lunge and a feint, a parry too late
A cut to the chest and youre down
Seeing the stain then feeling the pain
Feeling the sweat on your brow.
Chorus
The fighting resumes, a silence looms the swordsmen move gainst each
Other
A cut and a thrust, a parry, a blow, a stab to the heart and youre down
The angel of death hears your last breath
Meanwhile the reaper looks on.
Chorus
Oh...oh...fought the honour
Fought for the splendour
Fought for the pleasure
Oh...oh...fought for the honour
Fought for the splendour
Fought to the death
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Fought Piranhas
Well i hold the rope
and i hold the sail
and i kept my papers
to keep from land in jail
and i fought piranhas
and i fought the cold
there was no one with me
i was all alone
Well it's easter morning now
and there's noone around
so i unroll the cement
and walk into the town
there was noone with me
and i was all alone
and i fought piranhas
and i fought the cold
Well you know what it's like
i don't got to tell you
who puts up a fight
walking out of hell now
when you fought piranhas
and you fought the cold
there's nobody with you
and you're all alone
song performed by by White Stripes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wake Me!
Wake me when the war is over
Then tell me who won the fight,
“ hoorah ” for us if we have won,
and if we lost, then GOD wasn't on our side.
Then let me know just why we fought
And the reasons that we might die
Refresh my memory of this war once more
So never again must I ask why.
And if anyone asks if I did fight
While I was station way over there,
Thank them all and tell them of course I did
And thank them for keeping me in there prayer.
And tell them all no medals home will I bring
As I fought just for home and glory,
“MMM”, I like how that sounded
I think That will be my story.
I never fought for hate or for love
Never fought for the red, black, yellow or white
I never fought for riches or for wealth
I fought for my leaders, as they told me to fight.
Wake me when this war is over
Or tell me when the fighting is done
So I can discard my gun and put on my boots
And then head home, to my wife and son.
And tell them all I served my country well
Please tell them one lie after another
And tell them all I fought for GOD and Country
And also of course for my friends and mother.
And tell them while I was way over there
I fought hard each and every day
I killed for truth and I killed for justice
And every night for my sins to GOD I would pray.
So much sadness came from this war
Sadness I seen each and every way
How much I miss my family and home
And how I so hate in being afraid.
And when you do tell of my story
Don't tell it so sad to cause any to weep
Because during this war I did not a thing
Because as you know, all I did was sleep.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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American Wild West: Cattle Rustlers
there was a time
in American history
when cattle rustlers
were shot or hung
stealing beef on the hoof
hot irons changing brands
fast rustled up retribution
justice from a rope hung
there was a time
in American history
when cruel range wars
were fought with guns
settlers driven off farmland
starved their crops ruined
their homes stolen burned
cattle grazed homesteaders
land cattle barons prospered
water rights grazing rights
unfenced unowned range land
farmers ranchers fought wars
frontier justice lynchings
local residents fought
gunmen hired bought
no weak law range wars
poem by Terence George Craddock
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In The Days When The World Was Wide
The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow,
For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the wanderers go;
Greater, or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull road-side --
And tired of all is the spirit that sings
of the days when the world was wide.
When the North was hale in the march of Time,
and the South and the West were new,
And the gorgeous East was a pantomime, as it seemed in our boyhood's view;
When Spain was first on the waves of change,
and proud in the ranks of pride,
And all was wonderful, new and strange in the days when the world was wide.
Then a man could fight if his heart were bold,
and win if his faith were true --
Were it love, or honour, or power, or gold, or all that our hearts pursue;
Could live to the world for the family name, or die for the family pride,
Could fly from sorrow, and wrong, and shame
in the days when the world was wide.
They sailed away in the ships that sailed ere science controlled the main,
When the strong, brave heart of a man prevailed
as 'twill never prevail again;
They knew not whither, nor much they cared --
let Fate or the winds decide --
The worst of the Great Unknown they dared
in the days when the world was wide.
They raised new stars on the silent sea that filled their hearts with awe;
They came to many a strange countree and marvellous sights they saw.
The villagers gaped at the tales they told,
and old eyes glistened with pride --
When barbarous cities were paved with gold
in the days when the world was wide.
'Twas honest metal and honest wood, in the days of the Outward Bound,
When men were gallant and ships were good -- roaming the wide world round.
The gods could envy a leader then when `Follow me, lads!' he cried --
They faced each other and fought like men
in the days when the world was wide.
They tried to live as a freeman should -- they were happier men than we,
In the glorious days of wine and blood, when Liberty crossed the sea;
'Twas a comrade true or a foeman then, and a trusty sword well tried --
They faced each other and fought like men
in the days when the world was wide.
The good ship bound for the Southern seas when the beacon was Ballarat,
With a `Ship ahoy!' on the freshening breeze,
`Where bound?' and `What ship's that?' --
The emigrant train to New Mexico -- the rush to the Lachlan Side --
Ah! faint is the echo of Westward Ho!
from the days when the world was wide.
South, East, and West in advance of Time -- and, ay! in advance of Thought
Those brave men rose to a height sublime -- and is it for this they fought?
And is it for this damned life we praise the god-like spirit that died
At Eureka Stockade in the Roaring Days
with the days when the world was wide?
We fight like women, and feel as much; the thoughts of our hearts we guard;
Where scarcely the scorn of a god could touch,
the sneer of a sneak hits hard;
The treacherous tongue and cowardly pen, the weapons of curs, decide --
They faced each other and fought like men
in the days when the world was wide.
Think of it all -- of the life that is! Study your friends and foes!
Study the past! And answer this: `Are these times better than those?'
The life-long quarrel, the paltry spite, the sting of your poisoned pride!
No matter who fell it were better to fight
as they did when the world was wide.
Boast as you will of your mateship now -- crippled and mean and sly --
The lines of suspicion on friendship's brow
were traced since the days gone by.
There was room in the long, free lines of the van
to fight for it side by side --
There was beating-room for the heart of a man
in the days when the world was wide.
. . . . .
With its dull, brown days of a-shilling-an-hour
the dreary year drags round:
Is this the result of Old England's power?
-- the bourne of the Outward Bound?
Is this the sequel of Westward Ho! -- of the days of Whate'er Betide?
The heart of the rebel makes answer `No!
We'll fight till the world grows wide!'
The world shall yet be a wider world -- for the tokens are manifest;
East and North shall the wrongs be hurled that followed us South and West.
The march of Freedom is North by the Dawn! Follow, whate'er betide!
Sons of the Exiles, march! March on! March till the world grows wide!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Mother Of A Miners Child
She is my flower
And she blooms for the one who loves her best
The miners stop to watch as she walks
They know her love is not for sale
She will never fail me cause I know
I watch her grow
And the mother of a miners child
Waits for me beside the kitchen door
She is my light
In this place where the darkness never ends
Shell guide me where the tunnels twist and bend
Shes the only one who listens when I tell her
I got less than I can spend
She knows the pace
Oh mother of a miners child
Was away the coal dust from my face
When the night shifts done
Shell be waiting by the table when I come
Searchin for another dream to chase
Oh mother of a miners child
I know that you still think about the day
When well be movin on
Remember dear old daddy and
The promise that I made to carry on
Sometimes I smile
In the cage where the cables softly hum
Id curse that old straw boss to the bone
But the mother of a miners child
Is waiting for her paycheck to come home
Come saturday
And he is just a miners boy
I hope that he will find a better way
She is my flower
And she blooms for the one who loves her best
The miners stop to watch as she walks
They know her love is not for sale
She will never fail me cause I know
I watch her grow
And the mother of a miners child
Waits for me beside the kitchen door
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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So Much For Human Rights And Liberty
In China they jail everyone who dare to speak their mind
And even in the so called Democratic Countries you will find
That many innocents have been jailed and even executed wrongfully
So much for human rights and liberty.
Even the United States the so called Land of the free
In human rights has a poor history
And people have been wrongfully jailed and executed there
But then it's true of course that life is not always fair.
In Britain due to acts of terror by the I.R.A.
Many for the crimes of others had to pay
And spend years in jails far from home and family
Though wrongfully condemned they suffered years of ignominy
In Australia they incarcerate refugees
In detention centres in the outback in landscapes barren of trees
Though not guilty of any crimes they spend months and years locked up because
Of bureaucratic red tape and oppressive laws.
Though for freedom and justice many young men have fought and died
Not alone in China but in Countries World-wide
People are still wrongfully incarcerated at the pleasure of the State
And due to a miscarriage of justice left to an uncertain fate.
poem by Francis Duggan
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You Tell Me Of Your Australian History
You tell me of your Australian history your ancestors were British and Irish pioneers
But your history in this Land is not an old history just two centuries and twenty years
And in time that may seem quite a long span though the combined life spans of three people nothing more
Your ancestors hardly were Aussies they came here from a distant shore.
The first Australians have lived in this Country for longer than most care to know
Their ancestors came here from Asia more than sixty thousand years ago
They are indigenous to this Country all others have links to elsewhere
Yet they still struggle for recognition and that to me seems quite unfair.
Dispossessed by the Northern invaders they never did get back their Land
And that they are now ruled by white people I find that hard to understand
You talk of the history of this Land as if it were only two hundred years old
But then suppose the history of the ancient Dreamtime by white people will never be told.
I was not even born in this Country which makes you more Aussie than I
And though I'm not Nationalistic or Patriotic my heritage I won''t deny
You talk of your pioneering ancestors but why talk of Human history at all
If the history of the first Australians you do not see fit to recall.
You tell me of your pioneering ancestors but one fact you tend to ignore
That they were not born in this Country they came here from a foreign shore
You''d swear by you the Human history of this Land was only two centuries old
But the true history of this great Country by your type will never be told
poem by Francis Duggan
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To Horace Bumstead
Have you been sore discouraged in the fight,
And even sometimes weighted by the thought
That those with whom and those for whom you fought
Lagged far behind, or dared but faintly smite?
And that the opposing forces in their might
Of blind inertia rendered as for naught
All that throughout the long years had been wrought,
And powerless each blow for Truth and Right?
If so, take new and greater courage then,
And think no more withouten help you stand;
For sure as God on His eternal throne
Sits, mindful of the sinful deeds of men,
--The awful Sword of Justice in His hand,--
You shall not, no, you shall not, fight alone.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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We'll Drink A Toast
We'll drink a toast to the bra burners and the noble suffragette
The Emily Pankhurst's of this World we ought not to forget
She died under horses hooves a martyr for Womens Rights
In the history of Womankind one of the leading lights.
We'll drink a toast to the women libbers a revolt amongst suppressed women they inspired
They fought for years for equal rights for women they ought to be admired
In street protests they burned their bras in their fight for equality to men
On their eforts for their gender rights give them ten out of ten.
We'll drink a toast to Womankind the mothers of today
Though men 'twould seem still rule the World of women one can say
That one day they will rule Planet Earth and peace will be Worldwide
If mothers only had their way their sons in wars would not have died.
We'll drink a toast to the fairer sex to women everywhere
Their anger levels very low when to men them you compare
In some Countries around the World today women to men do not have equal rights
Though women in many Countries have become great leaders and have scaled the success heights.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Ned Kelly Is Proud
It's a sad sad day...
Our land, being taken from us
No care for the future..
They; take and taking,
Government balls deep'n
the miners; shut up money
A beaut dummy!
What would old Ned think?
What would old Ned do?
Eureka; those Legends!
Young Ned grew up to, truly awed..
Those Old fellas swore an Oath
under our Southern Cross..
' stand truly by each other and
fight to defend our rights and liberties '
Ned and the Eureka mob; laughing at
you young fella's! Struttin around, pill poppin
Loose pizzles, Straight off the production floor,
Medicured with your tough stickers...
Wearing my Mask; our Southern Cross displayed for all...
Have you earned IT? ? ? ?
It's a sad sad day...
Our LAND, being TAKEN from US! !
Young Fella's....
Where are' YOU 'at the Marches, why are
you NOT at your neighbors side...
Bash'n each other?
It's not your fault! ! ! ! ! !
Broken Soldier
Here stands a broken soldier
One that has fought for his life
One who has fought for your rights
One who has fought with no end
And has asked for nothing in return
Here stands a broken soldier
Much like any other
Just trying to make it through the day
Helping to keep a nation together
There is no wish for fame
No wish for glory
You may not even know his name
Still you know he is a hero
This broken soldier
Has seen his share
He has learned much more
Than what you will learn from books
He has face you each and every worst fear
He has met pain
And death was always a close friend
Knocking on his door
Waiting to be let in
But this soldier
Wasn't ready to give in
He may wonder a street
And pass you by
Yet he is still fighting by your side
And for your rights
He may seem unimportant
For he played such a small part in this huge parade
But in a war
When he is fighting
That small part becomes the parade
And helps a thousand times more than you'd think
This broken soldier knows the risks
He knows the possibility
And yet he fights
For your rights
For your Justice
And at your Liberty
poem by Alandra Nicole Moreira
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A War To End All Wars, But Wasn’t
They not only fought the enemy,
but fought the elements as well.
They fought for their country
in lands far from home.
They fought rain, mud and the enemy
in trenches stained with blood
from those who had fallen there before.
They fought on and on
while the Generals watched
the slaughter from far away.
For their mistakes men died
by the score across the battlefield.
Their blood would stained the land
then and forever more.
Then came the gas
like a creeping mist across the battlefield
that silenced all in its wake.
It made no distinction to young or old,
just poisoned all it touched.
Their contorted bodies rotted where they fell.
They said this was a war to end all wars, but it wasn’t.
Almost twenty years later
men from different countries gathered to fight another war
and again in the trenches men fell.
The mechanics had changed;
machines became more prevalent across the battlefield,
still men died for small victories in the tide of war.
3 July 2008
poem by David Harris
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Eureka
Roll up, Eureka's heroes, on that grand Old Rush afar,
For Lalor's gone to join you in the big camp where you are;
Roll up and give him welcome such as only diggers can,
For well he battled for the rights of miner and of Man.
In that bright golden country that lies beyond our sight,
The record of his honest life shall be his Miner's Right;
But many a bearded mouth shall twitch, and many a tear be shed,
And many a grey old digger sigh to hear that Lalor's dead.
Yet wipe your eyes, old fossickers, o'er worked-out fields that roam,
You need not weep at parting from a digger going home.
Now from the strange wild seasons past, the days of golden strife,
Now from the Roaring Fifties comes a scene from Lalor's life:
All gleaming white amid the shafts o'er gully, hill and flat
Again I see the tents that form the camp at Ballarat.
I hear the shovels and the picks, and all the air is rife
With the rattle of the cradles and the sounds of digger-life;
The clatter of the windlass-boles, as spinning round they go,
And then the signal to his mate, the digger's cry, "Below!"
From many a busy pointing-forge the sound of labour swells,
The tinkling of the anvils is as clear as silver bells.
I hear the broken English from the mouth of many a one
From every state and nation that is known beneath the sun;
The homely tongue of Scotland and the brogue of Ireland blend
With the dialects of England, right from Berwick to Lands End;
And to the busy concourse here the States have sent a part,
The land of gulches that has been immortalised by Harte;
The land where long from mining-camps the blue smoke upward curled;
The land that gave the "Partner" true and "Mliss" unto the world;
The men from all the nations in the New World and the Old,
All side by side, like brethren here, are delving after gold.
But suddenly the warning cries are heard on every side
As closing in around the field, a ring of troopers ride,
Unlicensed diggers are the game--their class and want are sins,
And so with all its shameful scenes, the digger hunt begins.
The men are seized who are too poor the heavy tax to pay,
Chained man to man as convicts were, and dragged in gangs away.
Though in the eyes of many a man the menace scarce was hid,
The diggers' blood was slow to boil, but scalded when it did.
But now another match is lit that soon must fire the charge
"Roll up! Roll up!" the poignant cry awakes the evening air,
And angry faces surge like waves around the speakers there.
"What are our sins that we should be an outlawed class?" they say,
"Shall we stand by while mates are seized and dragged like lags away?
Shall insult be on insult heaped? Shall we let these things go?"
And with a roar of voices comes the diggers' answer--"No!"
The day has vanished from the scene, but not the air of night
Can cool the blood that, ebbing back, leaves brows in anger white.
Lo, from the roof of Bentley's Inn the flames are leaping high;
They write "Revenge!" in letters red across the smoke-dimmed sky.
"To arms! To arms!" the cry is out; "To arms and play your part;
For every pike upon a pole will find a tyrant's heart!"
Now Lalor comes to take the lead, the spirit does not lag,
And down the rough, wild diggers kneel beneath the Diggers' Flag;
Then, rising to their feet, they swear, while rugged hearts beat high,
To stand beside their leader and to conquer or to die!
Around Eureka's stockade now the shades of night close fast,
Three hundred sleep beside their arms, and thirty sleep their last.
About the streets of Melbourne town the sound of bells is borne
That call the citizens to prayer that fateful Sabbath morn;
But there upon Eureka's hill, a hundred miles away,
The diggers' forms lie white and still above the blood-stained clay.
The bells that toll the diggers' death might also ring a knell
For those few gallant soldiers, dead, who did their duty well.
The sight of murdered heroes is to hero-hearts a goad,
A thousand men are up in arms upon the Creswick road,
And wildest rumours in the air are flying up and down,
'Tis said the men of Ballarat will march on Melbourne town.
But not in vain those diggers died. Their comrades may rejoice,
For o'er the voice of tyranny is heard the people's voice;
It says: "Reform your rotten law, the diggers' wrongs make right,
Or else with them, our brothers now, we'll gather to the fight."
'Twas of such stuff the men were made who saw our nation born,
And such as Lalor were the men who led the vanguard on;
And like such men may we be found, with leaders such as they,
In the roll-up of Australians on our darkest, grandest day!
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Day the Soldiers Came
The old man sat at his cottage door
As the soldiers came to town,
And laughed as the trucks went rumbling by,
Laughed as the soldiers frowned,
They carried their rifles high that day,
Marched past him by the score,
And scowled as the old man mocked them there,
As they waged their futile war!
The tanks sat threatening in the square,
The people stood in the street,
Watching the flood of khaki power,
The boots on the marching feet,
The General stood in his jeep that day
A scroll in his scrawny hand:
‘It's never too late to liberate
The folk in this tortured land! '
But then a ripple of laughter came
From the townsfolk standing there,
They seemed to enjoy a local joke,
A joke that they wouldn't share.
The soldiers were tense, bemused at that,
They'd rather the ripple of fear
They'd felt in a hundred similar towns
Since the war broke out that year.
The General barked, ‘Enough of that!
Where is your National Pride?
We've come to free you from servitude
And a great deal more, beside! '
But the old man, sat in his cottage seat
Had let out a great guffaw,
And the soldiers dragged him out of his chair,
To face the General's scorn.
‘Why do you laugh, old man, ' he said,
‘I could shoot you in your pride! '
‘I'm sure you could, and probably would
As you scorch our countryside!
But what price honour, when history
Ascribes your deeds to your name,
Will shooting a poor old peasant man
Ring loud in your Hall of Fame? '
‘Then why do you laugh? ' the General said,
‘The picture here is grim!
These soldiers fought, and died and bled,
You lack respect for them! '
‘This town has sat two thousand years, '
The old man said at last,
‘Was here when Hannibal's elephants stopped
To feed on the mountain grass.'
‘The Roman Legions passed through here
In their conquest and their might,
And Charlemagne's Grand Army
For a single, baleful night;
Even Napoleon Bonaparte
Conquered this little town,
For years, we had the Fascisti, and
The Nazis held us down.'
‘But where have their soldiers gone today,
They lie, each under his mound,
While we sit back, as your troops attack
And thrive in our little town.
You'll only be here for a moment more
Two lines on a history page,
Just one more army to pass through here
In your arrogance, and your rage! '
The army was there for a week or so,
But then, they had to withdraw,
The old man laughed as the soldiers passed,
He let out a great guffaw;
The Rebel General brought his tanks
And a speech that he had planned:
‘It's never too late to liberate
The folk in this tortured land! '
18 August,2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Lust We Fought For
The lust we fought for in now just a pile of ash.
The lust we fought for was a lie to it's very last.
The lust we fought for burns in my memory every night.
The kust we fought for wasn't worth it's own right.
The lust we fought for seemed so out of control.
The lust we fought for only needed us to grab ahold.
So the lust we fought for wasn't lust at all.
Indeed it was love that made our great fall.
The lust we fought for keeps me crying at night.
The lust we fought for has me praying to turn it right.
The lust we fought for makes me miss you more.
The lust we fought for broke my heart to it's core.
The lust we fought for brings out a million tears.
The lust we fought for challenged all of my fears.
So the lust we fought for was the pain i deserved to face.
Indeed it was love from that magically beautiful place.
The lust we fought for is now gone up in flames...
Because I now know that the lust we fought for was real all the same.
poem by Erin Grantham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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