Cafe Del Soul
By Marc Carver -- Contributing Poet -- [Email This Item]
The grass looks green
with the sun upon it.
It washes and cleans everything.
I can see old hand prints
There is no one here with me
just these words
The words which pop up in my mind
like numbers on an old till
I have no idea where they have come from
I find it hard to believe
that I have made them.
I am their father.
Does the paper and pen give them life?
Are there more unborn words in my mind.
Maybe there is a big birthing pool
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