A drawing on the chalkboard is just the start,
A bit of pigment on black paint,
Something that can be rubbed away as easily as it was put on.
In some ways chalk is like humans;
Easily damaged, smashed and cracked.
When do we give up?
Let go of the chalkboard dust keeping us together.
When do we wipe the picture from the board?
Our life from the world?
Never to be seen again.
A drawing on a chalkboard is just the start,
the dust falling off slowly,
unaware of anything it is doing.
Each a flicker of life slowly leaving,
A memory lost until it's all gone forever.
If chalk is humans what is the foot crushing it?
Is it a thought, a bad day or is it the guy who...
Left bruises on your arm and splints on your fingers.
Is it the person who never heard 'no'
No matter how loud it was screamed.
A drawing on a chalkboard is just the start, when does it end?
YOU ARE READING
My Little Book Of Poems
PoetryI've recently got into poems and I wanted to write some of my own.
