I have, for two years I couldn't face writing until something special happened. I just finised writing a poem, that for one person, would never have been written.
I love to write these lovely words,
They tend to paint my life.
I do not wish to end it all,
With gun or rope or knife.
When I was ten, or maybe nine,
I wrote a simple verse.
I knew that it was not much good,
But it was just my first.
On and on I wrote these words,
I'd show them to my friends.
But they all seemed to cut me down,
And never make amends.
I thought I must not be so good,
That's why they would jeer so.
And soon when I would want to write,
My mind would tell me no.
Don't write another of these things,
They'll only laugh and joke.
I'd sit and cry, and wish they all.
Would just shut up and choke.
For two long years I thus endured,
I wrote not one small thing.
I thought perhaps if I wrote one,
My heart would once more sing.
2007-10-08
06:14:48
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12 answers
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asked by
Anonymous
in
Poetry