The years of a child
Should be carefree
The years of a child,
That is,
Every child but me.

Most children grow
With wings upon their back,
That is,
Every child but me.

Born to mothers who cannot cope,
Placed in homes devoid of hope,
These children like me do exist,
But our tears dissolve into mist.

I don't believe that pain is forever,
And there IS a life to look forward to,
That is,
For every child,
even me.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem