Tasha Miller

Tasha Miller Poems

A fatherless child was born one day.
She never asked for this life,
but it’s hers, anyway.

Most have two grandmothers
but I’m not like the rest.
I could have only one,
so The Lord gave me the best.

My dreams are like an echo,
flowing through the air.
I can't catch them as they go,
but I know they are there.

In her dream,
he is there.
He holds her and loves her
and he really does care.

A death occurred today.
The suffering was long.
The death was preventable
but the heart wasn’t strong.

With smiles on their faces
and a tear in their eye,
they pour out emotions
so their hearts won't die.

I see broken children,
I see them all around.
They never get built up,
only kicked to the ground

As I sit
in bed tonight,
I wonder why
I can’t write.

My sweet little daughter,
you are almost grown.
Before I know it,
you'll be on your own.

Aunt Elaine

My dear Aunt,
our bond was sealed so quick.

When I think of you now, there is no pain
the words I have written have given me reign.

I used to wonder why but now I give thanks

I love a stranger
I love what I don’t know.
I love a stranger,
since a long time ago.

I see you there
out of the corner of my eye.
I can’t turn to look,
you might solidify.


In this lost world
I live in sad despair.
I searched for it forever
but it was never there.

I say this for the little girl,
the little girl inside.
I know we had a dream
but our little dream died.

Our sweet little daughter,
you are almost grown.
Before we know it,
you'll be on your own.

I want to know
my Daddy’s name.
Why do you act
like it’s a game?

Your grand kids are your pride and joys,
there are two girls and many boys.

Tarynne Marie loves her books.

I know you are my aunt,
but is that really true?
You seem more like a sister,
I even grew up with you.

It’s nothing but madness,
a child bleeds sadness
and no one ever sees.

Tasha Miller Biography

My poems reflect my life experiences, enjoy.)

The Best Poem Of Tasha Miller

Fatherless Child

A fatherless child was born one day.
She never asked for this life,
but it’s hers, anyway.

As she lay in her crib
at the hospital ward,
the other fathers come,
the other babies are adored.

She has no last name,
her birth certificate, incomplete.
There won’t be a proud Daddy
counting the toes on her feet.

That first day of school,
she knew something was wrong.
All the other kids brought a man
named “Daddy” along.

She had heard that word,
but what did it mean?
She didn’t have one of those,
at least not that she had seen.

She asked many questions
over the next few years,
but there were no answers,
just a set of deaf ears.

As she grew up,
the dream formed in her mind.
One day she’d get answers
and her lost Daddy, she would find.

She laid in bed every night,
giving him a face.
She rehearsed every moment,
every word, just in case.

She imagined a happy meeting,
a day full of hugs and tears.
The vision became perfect,
polished over the years.

She couldn’t believe it,
when the day actually came.
She finally had a story
and most of all, a name.

They wouldn’t let her search
until she was on her own.
She knew this was something
she had to do all alone.

She made many cold calls,
the answer was always the same.
Then she found someone
that knew that name.

The woman said,
“That is my son”.
The girl knew it was over,
her journey was done.

She learned all she could
in that one call.
As she hung up, she realized,
‘that was my grandma’!

She had what she needed,
the time was here.
She dialed his number,
the phone trembled next to her ear.

When she heard his voice,
she felt her heart flop.
Everything was still.
Time seemed to stop.

She told him the story
and the part that he played,
how she was his daughter,
the one he had made.

She heard him speaking
and the words that he said.
But this wasn’t in her dream,
it was a nightmare, instead.

He said he didn’t want a daughter,
her dream would never be.
She was only a weed
growing under his family tree.

Now, what would she dream about?
This was the only dream she had.
All she ever wanted was
to be a daughter to a Dad.

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