A Day to RememberThe love of the motherStrives for families to be togetherThe pain still residesAs the longing never diesA present for the oneWe all sing a hum:I dream about the youngThe family of the liesThe green they all desireThe brother who decidesA fate for all to lingerA cry for all to hearA broken heart to sew upA day for all to remember.
My ComposerIt started out as a tree. It later became an implement, an implement that changed everyone's lives. It has been living for ages and has evolved into futuristic utensils. As it ages it shrinks and lives an unforgettable life. It places thoughts onto paper and ideas into books. It can be long and smooth or rough and short. It comes in many personalities as well does its abilities. It can draw, shade, mark lengths, or sketch. Only my pencil can write.I received my first pencil when I was four years old. I instantly grabbed it and looked at its peculiar shape. It was long and yellow and had rough edges. At the head it was sharp and pointy and had a black stub on it. At the end of the object nearly as long as my hand sat a small rounded butt as pink as my polka-dot dress. At first I didn't know what to do with it when my mother placed her hand around mine and pressed the blackened tip of the object onto paper. I stared in awe as she outlined the shape of a heart. I smiled and began drawing