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Poetry |
The measure of a man Is not tattoos or scars. It is not a string of broken hearts Neither is it his own. It is not the cut of the clothes he wears Or the texture of his hands. It is not what others say concerning him Or even what he says about himself. It is not what knowledge he has learnt Or even such literature as he can quote. It is not his integrity Nor his detachment. No, it is none of these. The measure of a man Is what he does when no one is looking. Heaven's Just A Sin Away In a perfect world on my way home from the pub I would see; a fight, a vomiting teenager, a stand up pair of shoes in the street, a blow job taking place, and a crying girl. Of late there's been a dearth of weeping women. I live in Stoke Newington which is far from perfect. Even for one as easily pleased as I. |
Tim Wells is the editor of the poetry 'zine 'Rising'. He lives in North East London and is doing very well. |
| Edited By Jim Chandler & Haze McElhenny Site Design & Cover Graphics By UrbanDecay.Org |
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