~~~

My memory of grandpa
Was that his hands were red
Showing me some pictures
A kid's book before bed.

The bones were raw and gnarled
The sinews looked all sore
The skin was thickly callused
Spotted, lined and scored.

They showed wear and tear
They echoed his toil
Grandpa was a farmer
A tiller of the soil.

Grandpa couldn't read
But we could laugh and look
His hands delicately turning
The pages of a book.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/12/2015

Lose not hope my friend
For even the butterfly was once a caterpillar
Today it flies around with pride
Displaying it's wonderful hues and incredible beauty
But not too long ago it was a creepy crawley
So remember you might be crawling today
But some day you shall soar
So keep trying and don't give up
For all good things in life take time

A
Pen
without
Ink,
Is
Like
A heart with out love,
Both empty, unable to show how they feel...

He, who controls his pen and his poetry.
Controls the world.

:
and i think....
I enjoy being depressed
*and write about it.