Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jan 24
We all were bums and walkers through hell or we are children yet to recall
these tales, trails better marked than Hansel could imagine marking on his own.

We agree, words are well spent:
to buy tears to place the final bit of salt into the sea, in remembrance of passing over and passing through on hands and knees and standing, comforted,
beyond the door.
woe, woman, concha weep for me…
doncha
weep for me
I been beyond the door before I knew there's no knocker on this side

Mus'be more'n one door, one to knock and one to open,
beyond which are you?
Beyond the knocked on one am I.
I carry my own value as gravity determines things,
weigh that for what it's worth. Worthy, eh, what it's worth as a skill,
worthship, citizenship, partnership.
From three years ago, I find a piece of how I got this far. I suggested to me that I must read what I write or be accountable for not sharing free willing-ly. Self forming apps for self learning beings, run line by line.
Ken Pepiton
Written by
Ken Pepiton  73/M/Pine Valley CA
(73/M/Pine Valley CA)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems