When he was younger, his parents used to say,
'He's awful strange that little boy,
But I'm sure he'll be o.k.'
He'd pick flowers from the grove,
And press them oh-so-tight
Then cut them up and spread them about,
When his parents were away,
With a kitchen carving knife.
They left him alone, to trouble his thoughts,
He explored into the darkest arts,
and so, they let him be.
Instead of flowers, now he picks,
A different place each night.
Cuts it up, spreading it about,
Counts every drop,
as another tear he should have cried.
Leaving his parents forevermore.
All by himself on the
oh-so-familiar kitchen floor.
Author notes
Written November 21st, 2005
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WOW this is emotinoal
gd luck with the rest of this poem
it is rele emotive -
oooh thrilling. nice.
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