Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Misunderstood and subject to scorn.
Ne’er a way for you to be sure
Long since a smile on your face has worn
A youthful tyke becomes an adult boor.
Whose scorn doth cause our flow’r to wilt.
Alone in heart like our sighing Moor,
If only memory could be kilt.
My heart it breaks when sign is seen,
I am powerless to vanquish the Pain
And erase the scars caused by such men.
What I would not give to erase the stain.