I need the paper,
yes to breath.
The ink thats spilled,
is what I bleed.
The words I make,
are as my seed,
multiplying happily.
And when I'm gone,
they're whats left.
To carry on after my death,
the proof to show that I was here.
My poems,
my children,
I hold so dear.
saint cynosure ( Ken Bennight )
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-children-my-poems/
