I lost years of beautiful poetry.
I'd write of climbing an oak tree.
I once could hold tender love,
for years I hid fearing this love
Bad qualities are in everyone.
I was born as a troubled son.
My emotions were always deep,
needed to hide, hold & keep
Precious tender innocent child,
torn apart and ran so wild.
Fear was his only driving force,
fear and driving a deadly course.
Bottled inside I had to hide,
feeling weren't shown outside.
Me a tender caring loving child,
born strong meek and very mild.
Well imagine that if you will.
I can just randomly chat still,
about whatever pops into me.
I am not special I am just me.
I have a special gift it's true.
I can write poem about me or you
I feel the joy or the sadness
I feel the pain and the gladness
Poetry is my emotional aide
free to in poems I have made
I feel so happy to do the rhyme
to waste this would be a crime
I find this gift to have some fright
thought it does make things bright
I express tenderness and caring
to some they say this is very daring
I was taught as a young tender teen
work hard and no emotions are seen
I had followed that path far to long
poetic happiness is where I belong
expressing emotions to me is strong
wanting and needing to fro so very long
Is the joy or sadness shown in the prose
I feel both thorns and beauty like a rose.
M.W. Dimond 9-7-99 copyright
