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wordvango
Poems
Aug 2017
my father was an oak
it is a bitter pill to swallow
a willow on my shoulder
her width is covering me
in shadow
I try to grow all tall
and better I try
to make each sunrise
day brighter
My roots grow shallow
I fight
I strive to
get nutrients
among this forest
of tall trees
suffocating me
I am but a little
****
and my father was
an oak
my mother grew her hair
long
to the ground
Written by
wordvango
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Melissa S
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The Sick Red Carnation
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