The Written Word

May 28, 2011
Custom User Avatar
More by this author
Can you believe that to be
is to not?
To laugh and to see
all forgot?
From the ink on my
my life slowly withers.
As if of a flower besot.

It was once that
my mother was happy.
Twas once that my
father would smile.
But the story was
by a fragile hand
Making words and the like
to be vile.

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback