When?
When you hear the hard warm wind, Blowing outside your window, Or smell the bitter sweet scent of roses, You always seem to think why can’t that be me? Why can’t I always exist like them? Sure they may die away, But they always return. Why can’t that be me? When will I have my chance in the sun? When will I have people calling out for me? When will I be accepted for who Or what I am? When will I be loved? When will people take the time to just experience me, For the way I am? When? Written April 7th, 2002 © on Apr 07 2002 05:40 AM PST 18 • 0 • 10
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"When you hear the hard warm wind,..."