The Lost Children (2008) Poem by Lillian B. Rose

Ask any Poetess who her children might be
And she boldly replies: every verse I did write
So when one comes like a theif in the night
To claim her children are theirs in their right
Not only do they lie in fraudulent ways
But disgrace the mother who gave birth to their phrase

Is human dignity so quickly forgot
That the good works of another are stolen or lost
For we do a dis-service to claim a false truth
When we claim someone's writing is not even their soul
Spilled out in careful lines of bits, or graffite, or ink.
Poets spill the vein of their life in the lines they make

So if you don't understand from where inspiration
Is formed, try emptying your brain when the day is done
And laying your head beside mine on the pillow
Don't ever forget that the words are my children
A desire, a dream, a truth, and a vision
Coming to me at every angle I am open to
As Day turns to Night, and I am lost for a season.