My Friends

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  • Gratitude

    My Friends

    What would I ever do without my friends
    paper and pen
    they're here for the sad times
    and the good ones too
    these pages know me like the sky knows blue
    we go way back to the time my life really begun
    I was fourteen, so naive, so young
    I tough I had the world all firgured out
    I thought I knew what it was all about
    little did I know how painful life can be
    and I had not seen the beauty I've been blessed enough to see
    like the way sunshine can melt away all winters chills
    how a fresh strawberry's taste cures better than any pill
    my journals have listened
    when no one else possibly could have
    they've weathered every storm
    I shall keep them close
    so close
    even when they're faded and torn
    oh simple special pages that my secrets live inside
    thank you for being here for me
    for catching me as I fall of this roller coaster ride
    it keeps me looping back and forth
    all up and down
    thank you for giving me escape
    the safest place to drown
    I will always remember
     how you've helped me sow
    this quilt of memories
    so nealty stiched in evenly spaced rows
    I love the feel of my pencil
    as it sweeps across the page
    I will keep you close
    so close
    in times of youth and in age.



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    WordSlinger commented on My Friends

    08-17-2010

    Cool write, I feel the same way, and I think you speak for all, or most. I call my journals, my kids that listen, but they speqak, lol, ty WS

    shywoodrose

    08/18/2010

    welcome Word, thx for teh comment!

    SEVEN commented on My Friends

    08-17-2010

    Well I guess I can agree with you on this piece.....As too "Pen and Paper are my best friends"...At least I know they wont make up lies about me....nice work......keep the ink flowin

    shywoodrose

    08/17/2010

    thanks for the comment!

    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    shywoodrose’s Poems (22)

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