This was the first poem I ever wrote.
The month of independence,
The month that I was born,
The month my mother left the Earth,
The month I greet with scorn.

The month that is far from candid,
For the ruby represents blood,
Tears were shed, for my mother was dead,
As for summer, we wished it was done.

The world treats this month with great reverence,
But like my father, I treat it with scorn,
For the angel named Carol, who departed from Earth,
The month that I was born.

When it comes around, I feel livid,
All my negative feelings flow like a flood,
My mother was dead, no more tears would be shed,
As for me, I wish I was gone.
Published: 3/17/2014
Reflections of the Mind...
Bouquets and Brickbats