My face isn't carved in a mountain. I've never been struck by lightning.
I've never saved a crying baby from a burning house fire nor have I over come my misfortunes in life to acquire a name for myself. I consider myself a writer although all I've written is only pieces of torn limbs of my distraught existence.
Everything is a poem to me, it's my shorthand.
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Monday, January 1, 2018
People visiting "What colors Humanity" haven't heard from you in a while. "PRAY"
PRAY
My quietness
is uncertainty
Unsure if I should even speak
Am I wrong to believe
there's hope for me
Lately Iv'e reserved the right to believe
It's to late for me
Uncertain of any resolution
I Hope God Hears me....
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