“Always have a book at hand, in the parlor, on the table, for the family; a book of condensed thought and striking anecdote, of sound maxims and truthful apothegms. It will impress on your own mind a thousand valuable suggestions, and teach your children a thousand lessons of truth and duty. Such a book is a casket of jewels for your household.”
Poetry is art by means of words.I have never been much of a poem person to be frank, however time and tide waits for none and things change. With no sense of rhyme schemes and knowledge as to what onomatopoeia is, My first crack at poetry is one I’d like to share with all of you.
With each step
I’d thought you came closer,
Little did I know you’d fallen further.
What you did last night;
Was more than just murder
They say you can’t lose,
What wasn’t yours;
Left me lamenting a couple of hours.
Kisses like raindrops,
Your tender touch;
The memories I miss, oh so much
Soared high and hit my barrier,
Stumbled to death;
because you left.
Your deceiving attempts,
To heal my wounds,
All in vain; couldn’t kill my pain.
The scars I hide,
Are ever so infinite.
And it was after those tears,
I saw how this was all just a nerve wrecking game.
Working with words was always a fascination and though not a great deal, I feel proud to be the writer of this poem.