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By Linda Smith
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Date: Monday. May 1, 2000
Okay it's been said
Our letters are kinda dead
We seem to run in streaks
We all have a talent
Some even gallant
We just haven't used them in weeks
Our tasks seem to delay
Our ingenuity each day
It's hard to think in rhymes
Then all of a sudden
Our minds are a buddin'
And we think of all the good times
It's so hard to say
The price we all pay
To keep our faith first on our mind
But without it each day
We'd have nothing to say
We would surely be feeling the grind
This poem comes to you
with love ever true
and prayers we reach our peak
You're special each one
By Linda Smith
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