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My Verses | ||
| Often I sit with my pen in my hand, Wondering what sort of poem God planned. Soon I discover the pen starts to write, Words that may seem quite profound or just trite. I am compelled to record them as heard, Even the ones that I think are absurd. Taken together they mirror my life, Which is a happy one, not filled with strife. Countless notations of things that I see! Things that I feel or am hoping will be. Word after word will come forth from the pen. When it will stop is beyond my own ken. | ||
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