The Same Things

One time she sat without making a sound
Then said, "I wish that you would do the same."
She gave me a book elegantly bound
That I might use if I knew how to pray.
She said that I could use the prettuest words,
But the lives we lead are not story books.
This hit me hard like the tip of a sword,
I'll never be immune to her blank looks.
I wait for the day my tongue catches fire
And she hears the words that need to be said.
But to say them, a spine is required,
Something she knows I will never possess.
She may rarely smile, and her words could sting,
But I know we are made of the same things.





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Daniel W. said...
Jan. 10, 2010 at 8:06 pm
Awesome poem! Five stars!
 
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