For Me Poem by Patti Masterman
For Me
For me, none ever wrote poetry
For me, none ever wrote prose;
I stirred no sentimental pulses-
No use denying what was.
Why does god make misfits,
Who don't fit predetermined molds?
Why does god give warm hearts-
When receptions must always be cold?
The dead must now be happy,
Reposing in colder ground;
The warmth stays far away now-
And voices have no sound.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 12:58:29 PM # 1.0.0.1119
