Glass
It's much too hard cleaning up these glass shardsoff the asphalt street.I was picking uptiny pieces that got stuck,now my frail hands bleed.And then a midnight wander I began to pondernow a paradoxical memory.Never again will I seek the thrill of the sharp shattering sound that fillsmy adolescent mind so carelessly.I will keep this glass unbroken.
This poem is about:
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: