I hated hockey then,
And still do now;
Violent clacking of sticks,
Low hanging grey skies,
The scent of petrichor,
and crisp, white fog—
typical for the early morning air.
Though the fog was heavy and thick,
I'm sure everyone could see,
The neon orange football boots
My dad bought for me;
I think I only wore them once
And spent that whole time
Scuffing and crunching
Sand on the astroturf.
Frizzy ponytails,
Long and tight as our knee socks
Two tone blue stripes
Hugged over shin pads,
Our knuckles were red,
Pink tipped, numb fingers,
Lycra skirts not suited
for a game mid winter.
Clusters of girls
All teaming and swarming,
Which left me and you
Complaining hockey is boring,
Reluctant, we played
with clumsy passing
Half hearted, shoddy;
Our shoulders were slacking.
I caught my foot under a stick,
Fell flat on my ass,
A manoeuvre that wasn't so slick,
And we both just laughed.
In that short while,
I found you a blast
Though I never went back
To that hockey class.
YOU ARE READING
Love Letters from Another World
PoetryTaking inspiration from my own experiences, fictional happenings, and difficult subjects seldom discussed on this platform. All with the hope to bring a breath of fresh air to wattpad's poetry. Here is where I'll write poems as they come to me, and...
