I want to be a flower boy,
but I don't think I am.
I think I'm flowers and rain,
the cool breeze under a big cloud,
on a sunny day.
I am the leaves changing colour
if your favourite season is fall,
I am the "finally!" of success
after a series of dropped calls,
I am a little black notebook
For one stuck on the train.
I want to be simple and sweet,
but I'm a bit complicated,
a little niche.
I am dandelions grown
through the pavement,
the catch that keeps you
from quitting the game,
I am the last stroke
of a long lap in the pool.
I am not just
a sweet sunset
because I am tired too –
I'm a builder on foundations,
singer at a fading campfire,
shitty storyteller for the sick.
I am your best friend on your wedding day,
The one always holding the phone,
Always trying to be there or make it,
for the big group photo.
YOU ARE READING
Reader's Notes
PoetryA growing collection of prose, old and new, from the teenage years: stories, passing thoughts, poetry. Mental imagery and dialogues straight from thoughts to text. Feel free to leave a comment with feedback or pointing out a small mistake somewhere...
