I was five years old and my world was a tornado.
Mismatched socks and whispers beneath the playground's weeping willow
A blur filled with merry laughter and bad singing,
Scraping up my elbows and knees, eyes still stinging
Snuggled inside my parent's bed,
Giggling loudly, as their stories fill my head.
I was ten years old, and I did exactly as I was told.
My childhood seemed far away, pictures from a storybook, that was very old.
Objects organized in neat lines,
The only thing I can seem to control since my father died.
Stone cold, All of the voices just burned holes.
I am thirteen years old, and my world is a tornado.
Rushing and raging, filled with harsh and beautiful words,
There are still whispers beneath the willow tree, now they hold more meaning
Combs and hair ties everywhere, Clothes thrown across kitchen chairs
There is lots of laughter,
Though sometimes still pained,
But the memories of his love,
They will always remain
Whirled up in my world that can be aggressive like an exploding volcano
My tornado
YOU ARE READING
Oleander-COMPLETED
PoésieALL RIGHTS RESERVED Her words were like oleander flowers, so delicate, like a gossamer spider string, but poisonous, like her scarred, despondent heart. *in other words, my crap poetry that is still really important to me*
