I am like the leaves on the ground; the bones in the grave, Dead As I sit as motionlessly as a tall brown oak, Eyes dark, stormy weather, Lighting strikes, thunder booms, A tear falls I am alive again.
I entered this poem in a contest awhile back. And I just found out that it will be published in a poetry book! My mother is not appreciative of my work. She doesnt understand the meaning of this. It hurts me. She hurts me, I hope that anyone who reads this can relate, or at least understand