Hope Here’s a poem I wrote one day; the style is a Quatrain, tell me what you think!
A little girl sat on the busy street,
I could tell she didn’t have anything to eat.
Alone, she was
And I was about to fuss.
I walked over to speak with her
Something covered her coat, a dog’s fur.
She lifted her head as I drew near,
Looked up and said, Come here.
I then knelt down and asked
What is it? And a second time I asked.
She held up an empty can
With HOPE neatly written on its ban.
I said, Girl, hope doesn’t cost anything.
She replied, But it is everything.
But I just don’t know what you mean?
And she said, Exactly.
Hope
Here’s a poem I wrote one day; the style is a Quatrain, tell me what you think!
A little girl sat on the busy street,
I could tell she didn’t have anything to eat.
Alone, she was
And I was about to fuss.
I walked over to speak with her
Something covered her coat, a dog’s fur.
She lifted her head as I drew near,
Looked up and said, Come here.
I then knelt down and asked
What is it? And a second time I asked.
She held up an empty can
With HOPE neatly written on its ban.
I said, Girl, hope doesn’t cost anything.
She replied, But it is everything.
But I just don’t know what you mean?
And she said, Exactly.
