CHEROKEE TEARS

Tis' true that in this day and time, my blood is mixed with many kinds The red is found within my hair, skin strewn with freckles everywhere My eyes are green to hazel there, and the pigment of my skin is fair.
I'm told my Irish dominates, and on that point I contemplate I do get angry and burn within, but I do try never to offend I feel the fire beneath my skin, but there it seems to often end.
The French, I'm told by those who know, is why my passion has such flow I will admit my prone direction, does over-bound in great affection My feelings churn at just suggestion, and this one point I do not question.
Also, there's Blackfoot mingled deep, but from that heritage I do not weep I've been asked, time and time again, from whence my sorrow comes within Such agonizing seems a sin, when writing, tears flow from my pen.
well, now my friend, I'll tell you why, my pen does always seem to cry There's times I feel dark rolling clouds, I see the Warrior standing proud I see the Maiden don her shroud, while silent tears are screaming loud!
It comes from the deepest part of me, through Papa's blood of the Cherokee Warming those depths through all my years, deflecting even childish fears It really is to me so clear, I view all life through the Cherokee tears.

I am sylverpoet