Autumn wind rushes
between summer and winter...
Can you hear the poet's whisper,
echoing through pages of metaphorical pain...
Dealing with my inner self
I've learned and grew...
Never did he tell me,
that life would be this way...
Here I sit,
on the edge of the Earth...
The pain and hurt I hold inside everyday I cry for...
Can't sit still in these stupid desks
cramped in classes kept closeted...
If someone could read my mind,
Oh what sight that would be...
I didn't ask to be born into this world I didn't...
yet there I was; vulnerable and lost...
I know I will soon be eleven,
and my bones are growing weak...
I'm
falling...
Oh sweet summer child,
Carefree; in shortening days...