Why aren't you here with us?
Why are we always second the second choice?
Why is it when the army calls,
But when I call your nowhere,
to be found.
Why do I always have to try,
to impress you.
Why is it when I need you,
most your not here.
Why is it when my life is,
harder than ever your,
one of the reasons.
Why is it that you don't,
trust me even when you are,
I can see you cover up,
the hurt you have,
for not being here for us.
I love you dad.
Please come home.
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Comments about this poem (Here by Violet Creek )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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