Another Poetry Book

Mayday

I’m falling rapidly to the ground

Like Icarus, who thought he could fly.

But my wings weren’t made with skilled hands and wax,

Instead with a strand of hope and a pencil.

And maybe I am to blame for all this mess,

I started to believe and just got burned for it.

But maybe you are at fault here.

After all you were the one

With a relation so ambiguous

That I was unable to see where that line lay.

And so I now scream

Mayday.