My Children, My Poems Poem by Saint Cynosure
My Children, My Poems
I need the paper,
yes to breath.
The ink thats spilled,
is what I bleed.
The words I make,
are as my seed,
multiplying happily.
And when I'm gone,
they're whats left.
To carry on after my death,
the proof to show that I was here.
My poems,
my children,
I hold so dear.
well duh your a great poet and should take great pride in your work. And when I'm gone, they're whats left. To carry on after my death, the proof to show that I was here yes they will be... very good. Becca
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
5/4/2024 8:03:10 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Love it! Brilliantly and warmly expressed. Hits the spot.