backstories
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Fourth grade is when I met him
Mr. Smith, my ELAR teacher
He didn't make words dim
He made them a fine feature
Incouraging me to write stories
To use my words to send a message
We decided to build a house
It was that part of time before school
the leaves had started turning
and the reeds in the swamp had died
But there was still time so my brothers
They Stand Tall, Higher Than The Sky,
I Know They Could Kill Me, But I Continue To Fight.
The beauty of lifeEven through this strifeIs people’s abilitytheir uncanny adaptabilityTo hold in their palmthat one simple objectobject of calmThe ability to affect
Walking slowly
my head faced down
but it is too dark
to see the ground
Into the unknown
I keep walking Still
into my skin it pierces
the cold deathly chill
Imprisoned Life
Within a cage the heart does cry,
No hope to stand against a lie
And beats in pain to be set free
Mournful weeping rips through leaves
And dewdrop tears rest so silently
And I sit here perched up high
Looking down at the time gone by
I wonder of the years I've wasted
As the trees become pale
The life sucked out of fragile leaves.
The sky, covered in dull, meaningless clouds.
I watch as Earth welcomes Winter
With a friendly, extended hand.
pitter-patter like little feetraindrops tapping on mine pane
bitter burns hiss and slitherremembrance dismantles my sane
moist summers and eerie chimesfingertips lost within your mane
There is a time when one must step back
and see the tens of thousands of backstories
working together to build
one
using only the tissue of the heart.
They carve in and haul out,
