David Harris (18 June 1945 / Bradfield, England)
When we talk of family,
it’s not always about our blood kin.
Sometimes it’s about a group of friends
whom have become more family
than the real ones we have.
They are there with comfort
whenever tragedy strikes
with a kind of love
that wraps around you
and comforts your troubled soul.
You gather your family close to you,
so whenever sadness comes along
you will know you will have
someone to call upon.
10 July 2008
Comments about this poem (Family by David Harris )
People who read David Harris also read
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
William Ernest Henley
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings