Weave webs of pure delicacy
pump fear into hearts of gigantious size.
For i am a thing of beauty but always get cries
Why all the hate when we leave a legacy.
All of us spiders just want to be loved
Life is a torment when leg count is eight.
One conversation that would be great
Guess i'll go back to my corner where spider is shoved.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Spider by Arron Fowler )
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