Thursday, March 6, 2008


Every poem has been written.
Every tune has been sung.
Every tear has fallen;
Every word has left the tongue.

When every bit of sadness
Has already been expressed,
Where does the frail heart go
To find a place of rest?

Some find peace in poetry,
and some find rest in song.
Many cry themselves to sleep.
Are any of these wrong?

Poetry was my escape--
The tears were ink and pen.
But when every poem is written,
Where is my rest then?

~Molly, she used to be a poet

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