I do not know?
Almost three years now Daddy
since you were taken away
I thank God you no longer suffer
but I had so much more to say
But you and I were always very close
and I know that we still are
So be free to enjoy family and friends
I know you'll never be far
Oh but Daddy
Did I remember to thank you
for coming to stay with the kids and I
At times you thought you were a burden
but if anyone was it was I
And I want to tell you too Daddy
that you would be so proud of them all
Brandon's now a sergeant with a son on the way
Cam Jeremy is due early fall
And your little Sarah Daddy
you would be so very proud
She's a tiny little thing, still a great mom
and has the best boys in any crowd
And I'm sure you've been watching Curtis
So you know he's just like you
And he is living up to the promise he made
Yes Daddy I'm very proud too
Oh and one more thing
before I lay down to rest
Did I remember to tell you and the world
My Daddy's the best
Loving you and missing you always
Your baby girl
Copyright © J Dawn | Year Posted 2009
In 1983 you came back into my life.
Bringing me nothing, but trouble and strife.
You kept me a prisoner in my own home.
When all I longed for, Was to go out alone.
You caused me pain, you made cry,
I felt so ill, I thought I would die.
From doctor, to doctor, from pillar to post.
Where o where, is the cure I wanted the most?
Where exactly does the answer lie?
Eventually I found it, in a doctor called Di.
She gave me the will to carry on and fight.
I fought so hard, with all of my might.
The shops in the village seemed so very far away.
If only I could go out, just for one single day.
I tried and tried, the tears, the pain,
It was a battle lose or gain,
I gave it everything, yes everything I had.
It wasn’t easy, in fact, it was very bad.
In 1990, after 7 long years,
A lot of heartache, many, many tears,
I was starting to win the battle of getting out the door,
With each day, I was doing more and more,
But there was still so many things that I couldn’t do alone.
Still so many jobs, that had to be done on the phone.
I could now walk to the shops, there and back,
get the groceries, take them home, and unpack,
But I still couldn’t get a bus into town on my own,
only if I had someone to go with, borrowed, on loan.
It took several more years, of heartbreak and pain,
Before I could finally travel alone again.
May 2nd 2000, I jumped on a bus and popped into town,
It was just like my world had been turned upside down.
HERE WAS I FREE AT LAST,
Finally free to forget the past.
So I decided to do something I had never done before.
I started at college part time, each day I couldn’t wait to get out of the door,
To catch my bus, to feel like I had finally rejoined the human race.
Living life at a hectic pace.
Going to college at the age of 53,
Really did do wanders for me.
The computer course was harder than I thought it would be,
but others in the class helped me.
Our tutor was really nice,
Always ready with good advice.
Now I really feel I have turned my life completely around,
With this new freedom I have found.
With a lot of help, from my husband and son,
The battle is over, finally won.
So its goodbye agoraphobia you belong in the past,
Never again will you get me in your grasp.
This is a true poem of my own battle with Agoraphobia, That robbed me of a lot of my life,
Copyright © pat dring | Year Posted 2008
(in memoriam, Eugene Lawler, d. January 29, 2012, aged 83 years)
--- Note: "The singing machine" is a not so tongue-in-cheek reference to Gene and his penchant for singing whenever and wherever he wished, as well as to his karaoke
equipment and his nickname at bars that featured karaoke nights. ---
You fancied yourself a singer,
and indeed you were.
What songs we heard from you
you had made your own,
and you gave them freely
to all who would listen
(though we were just a few
who were, at times, inattentive.)
Time and remembrance may color
the images you left behind,
and the sentimental songs
you sang (and scribed on silver disks
for us to hear when, and if, we will)
may prod us to recall
your willful, dour demeanor
which could bloom into benevolence
or darken further in stormy sneers
at tardiness, or at perceived
maltreatment of any sort.
You were your own arbiter of behavior
who kept before you expectations
of what was appropriate, for yourself
and for us, the others of your kind.
We were few (still fewer now),
who flocked together on occasion
to celebrate, in quiet fashion,
whatever anniversary we chose --
perhaps your passing date
will become another to be marked.
And your voice, reproduced mechanically,
amplified, may remind us of our loss,
and of yours.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2012
I do not know?
laying in your bed
the permanent ring in the
of your blue jeans
i’m missing you already
Copyright © rachel blake | Year Posted 2013
You're like the storm and the wind,
Tearin up the city and breaking the
Whenever I'm around you girl,
I get weak,
You're breaking my heart,
And tearing up me,
Breaking my heart,
Breaking my heart, (Tearing up me)
I know we will make it,
Even though the wind is blowing
careless at me,
I can't do this without you girl,
I'll get weak,
Stop breaking my heart,
Bringing me to my knees,
Even though the love hurricane is
blowing careless at me,
I can't do this without you girl,
I'm too weak,
You breaking my heart,
You're the storm of the week.
Copyright © Anthony Scandrick II | Year Posted 2012
He stood bravely before me
with a medal of honor in his right hand
and a bandage of agony around his left knee
It seemed like he had struggled to stand,
his crutches lay useless on the ground
I found it hard to understand why,
a soldier in pain didn't even frown
With a voice firm but dry
his words shook me like thunder
"You're now the man of this house"
he uttered like a worn-out hunter
quivering up my legs like a terrified mouse
Drowning my mind through cold ears
he passed his sincere respect and sunken tears
Copyright © Moi Kaira | Year Posted 2012
HAD FUN WITH ENTERING THE DICTIONARY FUN CONTEST sponsored by Delliah Ventura!
THESE ARE THE WORDS THAT HAD TO BE IN THE POEM
Abomination scorn Affection Passion Yearning
Struggle Attempt Cherish Relationship Flame
Taste Tender Inner soul Bloom Bamboozle
HERE IS MY ON THE SPOT CREATION!..enjoy :)
I was a woman scorn
Unknowingly cherished a relationship
where the flame was no longer existent;
where time flew by in the distance and I missed
everything in my life I intended
because I was accepting a me that depended
I made an attempt to bamboozle the truth
and convince myself that he wasn’t screwing Kim
Ultimately I faked passion and lustfully feigned for affection
since I’d been betrayed
So, I got down on my knees and I prayed
I began yearning for knowledge of my Inner soul
I began to taste freedom and feel whole
The healing began and my consciousness rose - fresh bloom
It was no longer a struggle to end an abomination that would
prove to be a path of doom
Copyright © humble b | Year Posted 2012
The old woman argued relentlessly, her case.
Resolute, she raved in her conviction;
two thousand and one reasons were there for her to be mad.
Eleven was given to questioning eyes.
It was September,
and Bernice brought home the bourgeois man,
and the two fell
from the pedestal
they held among friends in the big city,
(the city) a melting pot,
now a city in affliction.
Bernice’s brown eyes combed the neighborhood;
two boys, with open arms,
played aero planes;
Across the street,
the rug pilot laughed his ass off
as if mocking the bourgeois man,
and his woman hid her face in rags …,
in degradation –
but her sad eyes openly mourned her son’s suicide.
Grief of that magnitude brings offense,
and the bourgeois man was red with wrath,
and he abhors the old woman
with every inch of his being.
Racism was reversed.
He avowed by God to ruin the rug pilot,
and the people that loved him consented.
Hearts were left to wonder
what makes men so cruel.
The reasons for the old woman’s rant was explicable,
and of the grounds for the revenge
the negros conceded,
in only one instance.
Revenge was foreseeable,
and the spirit breeds more phobias.
Copyright © Earle Brown | Year Posted 2010
It’s My Birthday
It’s my birthday… I look out the window there is no one for me owe so, owe so lonely poor me .
It’s my birthday… you surprise me, with a Barber-Q grill with a cooler that chills with a grin we show white grills.
Happy Birthday… it’s my Birthday I am still waiting, it is almost the end of my the day, just waiting on you to wish me a happy birthday which, well make my day.
It’s my birthday…you do not remember that day, can we go out for we can remember that day?
It’s my birthday… I can share it or alone, some share it with a twin, or with a friend and the ones who stay to the ends like a good friend.
It my birthday… its looks like another day to me I just need someone or something to comfort with me a room full of women and with hand full men, a juice in cup, juice in glass, with a sweet lady and grill on cut grass that may make every day feel like my birthday, with a touch of class.
It’s your birthday… it’s your birthday you should all-ways win on your birthday, if do not have a mate you sneak and go on second party date form those who may player hate.
Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday! it comes and go, I see you come through, looking out my window with a hand full company that is what a party really should need, yes it’s sweet, sweet with music and sweet with treats or it must be the money, or food, or brinks, or just me.
Poetry 7/7/12 by author Keith Kadell
Copyright © Keith Relf | Year Posted 2012
Can I catch you
Can you stay?
Forests at wood
There we play
A gentle hand
That fixed the dress
Brushing tears back
I can not bare
The oaken wave
Can I save
I miss your hair
And what it covered
More than a mind
God knows I loved her
The ghost I knew
She rests away
I can not catch you
You can not stay.
Copyright © John Paluszek | Year Posted 2013
Ah, If Columbus had not sailed
for America: the new land,
cigarettes wouldn't kill
those feeling the chill...
many would be alive, not dead!
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2011
Happy Birthday to me,
Another year of misery,
Smiling too wide as I say
Happy Birthday to me.
Copyright © Sarah Jones | Year Posted 2007
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Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013
I do not know?
We clad ourselves in colors as we march,
saluting independence through a foggy dream;
gazing at the night alight with flashes,
and firefly screams.
Rockets made in China, cascade/
to the backdrop of the Star Spangled Banner;
a flutter to the wind blown flags made in Brazil
and "I Love America Pins" upon our lapel;
(made in Mexico).
We stand on oceanfront (it’s owned by France)
gazing ‘pon the open sea,
the port is owned by Saudis/
but at least we stand here free.
Our hands steadfast upon our chest,
saluting whichever freedoms still remain,
those freedoms, their going fast;
and they’ll disappear one day.
We gaze into the abyss of night,
the twinkling tears that kiss our cheek,
immersing ourselves in awe of moment,
before it fades our dreams to sleep.
We stand enamored with this land,
the love that lurks within our hearts,
we celebrate this love/
fore tomorrow, standing is banned.
Copyright © Michael Benkhen | Year Posted 2011
On this cold winter night
A horror unfurls
As they leave their trenches
Under the Bagpipes skirl
It's Christmas Eve
In World War One
Over the top they leave
The killing has begun
Knee deep in mud
Barbed wire and bodies
The piper laments
Their bravery embodied
To march into battle
With their weapon of pipes
Whilst bullets and bombs
Leave the theatre in strife
Onward they march
Turning men into hero's
The battle of the Somme
Last centuries ground zero
What makes such a man
To enter a war
His weapon of music
That they follow him for
Amongst the men that fall
Others pick up their guns
When the piper falls
Their is no one
On this cold Christmas Day
The horrors have been unfurled
As one looks over the trenches
To a different world
But the very next day
In the distance you will hear
The sound of the Scottish Bagpipes
Leaving their enemy in fear
In memory to all who fell at Christmas time, and especially to the pipers
who used music as their weapon, we will remember them, as all will be remembered
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2009
Last week marked the 3rd anniversary of the sale of the number one selling beer in
America to a foreign corporation. I thought it was a sad situation when it happened
and put my comments down in a poem at the time.
America’s lost a great Icon
We sold Busch, our own “king of Beers”
An American tradition been ended
That lasted for one fifty years
St. Louis is feeling love lost
The senior Busch spins in his grave
But the 52 billion they offered
Caused the Busch family owners to cave
Not sure how this will impact the beer taste
Not sure that we’ll notice the change
But Bud’s now a foreign domestic
A non-sequitur title quite strange
Copyright © mike dailey | Year Posted 2011
I Had a Dream
I had a dream. Oh I had a dream.
I sat in a chair in despair thinking
of the love and memory of my mother.
In my dream I built a stairway to heaven with tears to hug her.
Halfway with out a sound or word in the silent skies
an angel appeared upon me.
It was a precious and beautiful site.
Oh! I said could you for me ask God to cross a rose and lilac together
to create a bush with large clusters of white, purple, and pink flowers
and the fragrance of memory
And give it long green stems so it can stand free and gracefully.
Also ask him to it a name, a special name ‘ Kollock ‘
and let it represent never forgotten love and memories.
In my dream God did this for me,
and gave it to my mother as a gift from me
Copyright © JAY JOHNSON | Year Posted 2008
We boomers, as our generation’s called,
have lived through two seasons, considered great,
during which our values were overhauled --
The Summer of Love and Autumn of Hate.
Both brought us together and gave us hope.
In the face of injustice, both were staged --
the first, a celebration with free dope,
the other a tragedy that enraged.
We were innocent in ‘Sixty-Seven;
we saw world violence and were appalled.
Our attitudes changed by Nine-Eleven;
we sought revenge, though we were shocked and galled.
While Winter of War passes, may we find
The Spring of Renewal and peace of mind.
Copyright © James Ph. Kotsybar | Year Posted 2011
It's been almost ten years to December 2002 since Laci Rocha-Peterson and her unborn son were killed by her loser husband, Scott Peterson. This case has haunted the lives of all of the citizens of a California town called Modesto; just outside of San Francisco. It seems that Laci's life was ended permanently too soon, especially when she had planned on giving birth to Scott's first born son, Connor. Both of her parents (her mom and step-dad) were angry, her brother was also angry and dismayed, the people were shocked and disgusted, and so on. Scott Peterson was afraid to be a father, that he never wanted to spend the rest of his so-called "life" with his late wife, and, on top of all that, Mr. Peterson was also afraid that his late wife, Laci, would find about his love affair with another woman named Amber Frey, so he killed her as a cowardly act. Laci Rocha-Peterson and her first born son really didn't deserve to die by the hands of her own husband, their own flesh and blood. She and her son had a whole life ahead of them, especially when her son, Connor, was about to begin the first day of school and stuff. But now that baby Connor and her mother are not on planet Earth and in heaven now, their family members, especially her parents and his grandparents, are still in a depressive mode. What kind of human being would want to dump his or her spouse in a body of water, let alone the San Francisco Bay? Who does that? The media, including the CBS Network, Nancy Grace, and the San Francisco Post were all over the Laci Peterson case, especially when everybody knew that Scott Peterson Selfishly killed his own wife and unborn son. What a coward he is and/or was. Scott may have had all of the ones he loved fooled, but when he walks into the death chamber and is executed by lethal injection, God will decide his punishment. And when He does, Scott Peterson will pay for what he did to his wife and own son, his own flesh and blood. The spirits of Laci Rocha-Peterson and her son will live on in their relatives' lives and through the hearts of the ones who knew her. May she and her son rest in peace.
Copyright © Brashard Bursey | Year Posted 2011
I do not know?
Shush be calm, it’s okay I’m right here,
You’re hugging my pillow and shedding a tear
You have my memory and I feel your heart,
Always forever till death do us part.
We’ll always have Paris and the empire state building
Watching the Bulls and the yankees out fielding
But there’s nothing like kissing and the shared living touch,
and the holding of hands that we loved so much.
The smell of your perfume at the end of a day
Knowing that just before work we had shower play
Making love in the moon light the sun and the rain
The memories of beach the car and the plane
Running naked through sand dunes and chasing the sun
Naked moon bathing naming stars just for fun
It was always and only about just you and me,
And it always and shall be for eternity.
Please don’t go just yet I have something to say
Then you can let my balloon float away
I thought I knew love and knew what to do
But it all went so wrong when I met you
My wires got crossed an my thinking went wonky
My smarts all went south on a pantomime donkey
But now that I’m gone I don’t want you to worry
I don’t want you to rush to get here in a hurry
It’s all down to you now to play and explore
Before you join my photo in our sons bottom draw
Thank you for sharing your life and your love
I’ll be watching you always from the blue skies above
From the wind in your hair to the moon in your eyes
From the warmth of the sun and the sea and the skies
Feel loved and not spied on, I want your sprit to fly
I can’t live with the thought of making you cry.
Copyright © mark fullick | Year Posted 2010
Its your Halloween rave, having your mascaraed
With all your best friends from back in the day
Liz Lauren and Blake and while they're dressed like skanks
I'm on the front line of battle
Howlin like jackle with A real nasty cackle
puttin a razor blade in the sack of Blake's apples
crack in Lauren's snapple
Staddle Liz like mclovin
But I am more like faghole As I babble at her ass
Axe her fast and mash her up like cattle
Sneak back and tackle your dad and put him in shackles
Shove sour patch kids Down your trap and gaggle
Its abominable, so unbelievable
But its inevitable, the end is kissable
I have rattled these kids psyches
squirming like a centipede, cutting them like celery
hear their squeamish screams echo in the streets
as the creepy bells of the chapel ring
I remain a mystery
You'll need nancy drew, and at least 3 of the hardee boys to find what I'm up to
Theres this gloom that looms down in your basement room
Consuming shrooms, enhaling fumes to escape your doom
Witches zoomin by on their brooms makin sonic booms
Quick call scooby doo, but I killed him too
You heard a loud pound cause I cut the fuse so you
Run away to a motel room, assuming your safe
And As you look the other way,
I got my fangs in your veins and stranglin your neck
Too bad you didn't text your friends to tell them who is next
Hmm let me think for a sec. As Hex your boy rex
with an incessant twitch, till he is dead in a ditch
Hang him from bunny man bridge
Yo dude turn the lights on
But there's no flip to switch , I have flipped the script
Its bewitched with no miss to kiss
Exorcist with no priest to dismiss the spirit
So the town clock strikes half past 3
There's one last gas before i must sleep
Or i will crash fast if the light touches me
Put on the mask jack, just like the sixth scream
I need to grasp havoc, till i hear shrills and shrieks
Please back rabbit, these chills aint for teens
As I stick a cherry bomb in your moms exhaust pipe
Run up on you with nine a knife, and the head of your wife
Its useless I'm the nuisance that's abusive yet conducive
To your fear that I am near So close I could whisper in your ear
Smell the shampoo in your hair Wipe the floor with your tears
And as you look up in the mirror
I'm there ready to smear your blood all over the chair
as I stab you with my spear I crush a coors beer then
Leave you re crops there dead, red spread on the floor
But I hear a knock on the door
Are you okay honey? "Yes mommy, just got a cold sore"
Copyright © Mike Conway | Year Posted 2012
How can love come and go so fast?
I really miss the way we were.
I still love you even though I hate you
I hate that you made me cry
And how it is so hard everytime to say goodbye
I didn't like that last hug
I can feel little heart strings given a tug
I want the old you to hold me
I want the old you to come back
I want my whole life to be back on track
The ringing is about to stop
No more "I love you, I really do"
No more staying on skype till two
The old you is gone and for awhile even you're not coming back
I wish I woudn't have got mad for somethings so dumb
So that now my heart wouldn't be so numb
If we could have made game plans and talked things through
Right now I wouldn't be missing you
The old you would still be here
And I wouldn't have these painful tears
Copyright © mandy cabral | Year Posted 2012
Her look that day,
Should have told me everything she could not say.
Unprepared, I stared.
She walked away.
As she tossed our ring,
I felt the sting.
If I’d known then
How I feel today,
I'd heal the abscess and my heart’s decay,
Before her affection left me there that day.
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2011
It's sad to reminisce the memory of those
who have long left our world without a chance for goodbyes....
I was left behind for an unexplainable reason
to fulfill a task with a true purpose;
and still walking and breathing I go on,
gathering tiny fragments of stories never told by writers.
Sometimes I tell myself," Why was I continuously spared?"
" Why do I have to be the last one to leave?"
Those answers will be given to me when I'll grieve,
and close to death : I will hear them through the voice of the Lord.
And instead of receiving comfort, I will generously give it...
even to the enemy who once despised my honesty;
and coexisting with everyone, I will uphold my ethical code and go forth,
not cogitating the mystery of my unblemished identity.
Many before me have achieved this by resisting change,
not adapting to the new moralities dictated by society,
but the result was too tragic and gruesome for all to accept reality;
and as lepers with open wounds, they still indulged in pleasure,
hiding their disease with canning lies and eloquent flair....
I would cut off my own hands, rather than share the unclean thing!
And still walking and breathing, my arduous mission must be complete:
neither ridicule nor contemptible looks will make me put my rod away!
I'll stick to my convictions and move on to delight in another blessed day,
and as bewildered as they may be, I refuse to be compassionate...
they must understand the purpose of my birth,
identify those works and deeds that give me worth,
then the outcome wouldn't be short of a miracle;
and ebullient as they appear, I suspect they will tremble!
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2011
Christened as averred one Harriet Kuritsky on November 13th nineteen thirty five
the youngest of four with only one brother
whose exit from this world from a terminal illness she did not survive!
The following emotions communicating heartfelt grief
practically vanquished as like my existence turned a new leaf!
A recurring abysmal grief stricken state
still consumes my entire being of late
these perpetual tears of sadness seem not to a-bate
since the grim reaper brandished scythe
signature sign of a deadlocked fate!
Twas about 11:00 a.m. 2005 that third of May
that our dearly beloved mother
fought tooth and nail to keep death at bay
(recounted by sisters who elected to remain on vigil that day)
nonetheless rigor mortis upper hand
brought a (supposed) painless and swift death
to her diseased and emaciated riddled body gone lifeless and ashen gray!
This only heir still misses his mom more than plaintive words can spell
with his agonizingly pained heart and soul that rents asunder this psyche pell-mell
no amount of weeping can quiet and quell!
Cathartic for me to give you a posthumous ode
conveyed in an easy to read poetic code
to accept finality & permanent loss only retrievable from nostalgic memories
identified as that childhood home and favorite abode!
Her cremated ashes still remain sealed in the same nondescript box
white, powdery and chalk like material
devoid of any vestigial semblance to her once living and vibrant self
that unique persona pulverized and vaporized
(housed former svelte and tall Arthur Murray ball-room dance teacher
a half century plus prior to demise
which beauty, charm and grace quickly caught the attention of my father
who courted and eventually proposed to this young flirt and tease of a gal)
inert organic matter now represents sole residual embodiment
reduced to dust and near nothingness
former corporeal being of blood, bone and flesh
weighing no more than a dozen hatch marks on the scale
absence still bears down heavy like some millstone round the neck
per the black hole void created by defeat with Grim Reaper
toward this woman who helped birth and nurse me into manhood
momma’s only grown son still feels ripples of grievous sadness
no matter the years of suppressed anger and rage
in addition to emotional conflicts between us
which invariably wrought unpleasant relationship
and a legacy of discord writ large across the tapestry of my life!
Copyright © MATTHEW harris | Year Posted 2012
Your eyes don't look at me
Your lips don't speak my name
Your smile isn't meant for me
Your feelings aren't the same
Your touch won't caress me
Your memory will forget me
Your soul wont care for me
Your thoughts aren't of me
Your future isn't with me
Your heart doesn't beat for me
Your breath won't be because of me
And your love was never meant for me
Copyright © David Cardoso | Year Posted 2008
I couldn’t read, I couldn’t write…
That my world would no more ever be bright.
With the morning sun I would rise,
The day ahead full with surprise.
He took me here, he took me there,
We planned the day for everywhere.
We sat together all alone,
Speaking of things, which were atone.
Our minds would argue, but hearts unite,
We kept opposing, although right.
He bought me chocolates I never shared,
I would joke on him, but he never cared.
He brought me flowers from the bushes around,
A red one hidden as yellows surround.
I always pretended I would never see
But in my heart I would just let it be.
Back in my room when it was 7 again,
I would sit quiet, and feel the pain.
As I realized that another day would end,
He would stay a day longer I would pretend.
With sleepless nights my eyes would swell,
Moistened with bitter tears and love’s spell.
The morning would come and go again,
But the realization would still remain.
And one sudden day it was the day,
He kept staring at me and couldn’t say.
I made him promise he would never let know,
When it was time for him to leave and go.
But the look in his eyes I knew there was no next day,
I couldn’t make him stop, not in any way.
I ran away, far away from where he was,
Picturing him looking at me, as that was the last.
Copyright © Vincel Parmar | Year Posted 2010
My sister is one of a kind and I know shes always by my side I know we fight.
and sometime dont get along my sister and I are like a song.
The bond between us will never break she's my best friend
and it will never change I love my sister
Copyright © Kellie Gately | Year Posted 2011
I do not know?
So many things that go around,
Yet in this crowd there is no sound,
The world seams dead and void inside,
And I can’t seem to run and hide.
I hear her screaming out for help,
She gives a final wounded yelp,
She hits the floor and eyes turn black,
Now she knows she can’t turn back.
Those left behind hide up and die,
No one ever wants to cry,
The tears of blood cause too much pain,
Our poisoned hearts are not the same.
As your body dissolves to ash,
The whole world changes in a flash,
No more happiness for us to share,
No more mother to love and care.
Copyright © Katanna Boleyn | Year Posted 2013
Two thousand seven
Hundred and fifty victims
Murdered, Rest in Peace
My entry into Nathan's 9-11 contest
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2009