It's the middle of the night.
There's a knock on my front door.
I pull with all my might.
And fall straight through the floor.
I land on a cushion made from years.
In front is a glass filled with tears.
I gently lift it up.
And I dump out that silver cup.
The tin appears before me.
In it is a single seed.
I place in the ground before myself,
In the pool of my own tears.
From that tiny seeds comes, in full health,
A single blue flower, large beyond its years.
YOU ARE READING
A book of poetry
PoetryThis is a bunch of poetry I either wrote or found. The ones with an asterisk (*) in the title are the ones I wrote. Any others I found. Please no stealing the ones I wrote and please don't criticize them too harshly. I did my best on them.
