The see-saws frosty as a Monday morning
for he
who sits without the small shade of a
big brother,
the "I'll hang with you later"
kind
that promised Mum he'd look out
for me,
proclaiming, "I'd never leave him for my friends"
kind
even when he hears the call, it's a no
my homie,
the "my little brother's more important"
kind
but when he's picked up with sunstroke and blisters
by Mum,
the "you've been manipulated"
kind
It doesn't matter that a
beating will be
dished
and
an allowance
will be revoked,
'cause, if only they knew
what he could do,
not to the world
but himself
What could he do?
YOU ARE READING
Waiting for the Rain to Fall
PoetryPoems that twine thread around the broken bits of a soul, that fling umbrella lips into beaming buckets and kind of just make you want to say, "life is beautiful, isn't it?" - a totally unbiased review from me, the author.
