My body cannot run as my soul. Nothing has so much breath as my desire, nothing reaches my insanity.

There is something that pull me hard and I never catch it up.

I need to run in this little world, with my little steps, up to the point where my body loses, until where everything hurts more than my desperate mind.

I need to run until the death, because I live for speed.

:clapclap: :clapclap: is all i wld say.....think its really gud

someone with a great mind!!! and great imaginations... always remember imagination is more important than knowledge....

well done m8

mad

I've often wondered whether as a poet I could cut it.
But, alas, it seems that I will never see that lofty summit.
Of heady clouds and fragrant breeze, to gaze out across the verdant valleys.
Of green and pleasant lands and in the lee of mountains high, pretty little Chalet's.
My mind would turn to prose and ryhme.
An impromptue turn of phrase and time.
Wondering if I can string together a line or two.
Maybe my sweetheart for which, to woo.
My nerve would break, I need the loo.
In the darkness all I can hear is owls', terwit, terwoo.
So maybe life is like the pourcline pan.
Shiny white and reaks of . . . Ham?
Prehaps that's where my poetry resides.
Down a dirty hole with streaky sides . . . . . .