Poem

January 5, 2009
By Ari California, Ojai, CA

Poetry, poetry...
Has a language of its own.
Unchangeable. Set in stone

Rhythm, rhythm...
Carves the delicate song
Steady and strong

Words, words...
Etching pictures in your mind
Without them, you are blind

I reach out to touch them
Hold them and love them

Broken
I broke it
Fingers bled
As I pick up the many shards
Stupid me.



Similar Articles

JOIN THE DISCUSSION

This article has 0 comments.



SciArc

MacMillan Books

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!