Poetry


On my brittle bones you have rested your weary legs.

Sitting on my back you wiped your brow.

My limbs numb.

You finally stood with your weight on your hand,

Using me as a crutch.

You dusted yourself off,

And flew into the sunset.

With a click of the tongue and a one finger salute

Back at me.

My branches broken

To this day,

But you knew.

Indicated by your ever present over the shoulder smirk.

You always knew

But you did it anyway.

7 thoughts on “Poetry

  1. What a scumbag. Mutherfucker is right! This is the sickest thing you can do to a child. It pisses me off that it happened to you and that it happens to any child. And what’s worse is that they just go about their life like they are good people. Like they did nothing. At least most of them do it seems.

    Like

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