In Time

In the abcense of my time,
Can a weed be planted in my mind.
One you can never rid,
It keeps to grow.
Latin words expands, setting trends on fire.
My soul, can never be for hire.
Acid burning blood, runs through my veins,
You seldom will hear me complain.
Even if it means,
I fell in love,
With pain

poem by Unic Cjonr
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!