am a seed,
Planted in this soil called life.
In me lies fruits,
Fruits that will last for generations to come.
Fruits that can either be
a daughter or a son,
a woman or a man,
a mother or a father,
a sister or a brother,
a wife or a husband.
Nurture me,
Do not torture me,
Prune me,
Do not hewn me,
Love me,
Do not hate me,
Give me wings to fly high
like a bird for
I am the girl child.
@thebeezybee you are not going to be able to get the best time to get the latest
About the Creator
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The Blue Ridge Stalker
Tom had left the Ford down the way, its spark plugs finally exhausted and no mechanics for a dozen miles back through the foothills to Strossburg. No matter, he had worn his boots—almost as if he planned for this to happen. The puzzle he sought to solve emanated from the woods clinging to the slopes above; the valley behind held no mysteries.
By Stephen A. Roddewig4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Nice poem