For my 2016 writing project, I’ve decided to write a single line of poetry every day for an entire year. Below, is November’s poem. Enjoy!
Thirty-three years old.
A brother lost.
A father fighting on.
A mother standing tall.
I feel brave.
Only death can defeat me.
It nearly did.
Still, I stand.
We all do.
We are like trees in a windstorm.
Life discounts me.
That is its mistake.
We've been to the brink.
We've stared over the cliff.
Edges are nothing to be feared.
Life defined in two parts.
My own personal B.C. and A.D.
Before destroys me.
The next is mine.
With bated breath.
I turn the page.
I begin writing a new chapter.
Much will be said of this time.
It is my beacon of hope.
These hours are mine.
Numbers on a wall,
Each with a purpose.
Let's use this story.
Let's save a soul.
November 3rd can change things.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 5:34 PM UTC
For my 2016 writing project, I’ve decided to write a single line of poetry every day for an entire year. Below, is November’s poem. Enjoy!
Thirty-three years old.
A brother lost.
A father fighting on.
A mother standing tall.
I feel brave.
Only death can defeat me.
It nearly did.
Still, I stand.
We all do.
We are like trees in a windstorm.
Life discounts me.
That is its mistake.
We've been to the brink.
We've stared over the cliff.
Edges are nothing to be feared.
Life defined in two parts.
My own personal B.C. and A.D.
Before destroys me.
The next is mine.
With bated breath.
I turn the page.
I begin writing a new chapter.
Much will be said of this time.
It is my beacon of hope.
These hours are mine.
Numbers on a wall,
Each with a purpose.
Let's use this story.
Let's save a soul.
November 3rd can change things.
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