August 18, 2011
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I wait patiently
(Or not-so-patiently)
For a flow of words
To adorn the page.
But inspiration
Is what I lack
For oh-so young
Am I of age.
I am not wise;
Have not been battered
By bitter tongues
Of angry others.
The perils of life
Have yet to begin.
I have not felt
The ache of knowing,
The pain of growing
Into someone
I have yet to become.
My mind is clean,
Nearly innocent,
Sparse of wrinkles
Or knowing twinkles
Of aged eyes
That have lived to see
What the meaning of life
May happen to be.

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Lisa219 said...
Aug. 31, 2011 at 3:59 pm
Amazing poem......even if she is my daughter
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