- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
We will all wilt like week-old roses
Given with apology or with love
Given in mourning or in celebration
We will still wilt
And our petals will shrivel up
And we lose our color and beauty we once had
And when im gone
Whos going to remember me in a centuries time?
Buried only eight feet under where people continue to live
And where moss grows thick and dark on a gray old tombstone
Where my printed name is barely visible and spelled wrong
Where the stone has been worn and cracked by time
And I'll be there just a short eight feet below
And whose going to remember me?
Whose going to remember the sunsets I watched on the front porch?
The secrets I never told and the love I gave to a man…?
What I saw in the clouds that day in the 4th grade…?
Those nights I cried and thought I wouldn't wake with the suns rise…?
And how I sang with angels and danced with wolves?
Whos going to remember the day I sat in the kitchen
Looking at a vase of week-old roses in the windowsill
With the sun streaming through the clouded water
And thoughts of life streaming through my head.
Thoughts about being remembered.
Thoughts about wilting like a week-old rose.