𝓡𝓸𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓷 𝓯𝓻𝓾𝓲𝓽
ℜ𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢
𝔖𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔰
𝔄 𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔟
𝔒𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔪 𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔣
𝔒𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔤𝔢
ℑ𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔴𝔢 𝔰𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔢'𝔡 𝔡𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔨
𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔨𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔉𝔢𝔟𝔯𝔲𝔞𝔯𝔶
ℭ𝔶𝔫𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫
This poem is about:
Me
My family
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