Sunday PaperA Poem by EliSunday Paper
I read grayed, torn, abandoned folded pages from my innocent hands Hands which, with great care, struck myself from behind and front again. Arguments, deaths, accomplishments, and tragedy again, all weeping for my hands to soothe. It will not do, to caress it so, with my hands so unwilling to hold it with care My eyes alone laugh and hold it all in. A shame, too, my world lies over and over before me, as if I'd quickly risk for it. No, no I cannot. Too much for my desire of life with sight than fingers with love.
Now leaves fall in abundant color and litter my head. In attempt to show what was missed, it mocks and slanders and belittles and rampages my sight and wisdom that was, I know was, or could, absolutely be. Sense gone, hope unaware, questions there, never here, I know not what I need. My eyes tremble, not in fear. In more, with more but no more pride or strength. Seen enough? I feel the world say now. I know I have.
It's my hands now which musn't, and must, but without fault and shame. Work, work through. Hope, fate in years, of life, of earth, I learn with work. It pushes, it pulls, it holds me to help and save, serve and behold. © 2012 EliAuthor's Note
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3 Reviews Added on September 8, 2012 Last Updated on September 8, 2012 AuthorEliCharleston, SCAboutI'm a 17 year old kid who loves writing, photography, reading, mathematics, science, and music! *IF you review any of my work, please don't just say how good it was. I want strict reviews that can.. more..Writing
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