The day falls,
my father calls,
"The fun outside is done,
but its time to make paper airplanes son!"
I run inside,
a paper in my hands.
Little patience I have to see my plane fly.
Father tells us to fold left,
but I fold right,
he folds over,
but I fold under.
Tears pour from me in frustration.
"It's fine,
you can have mine."
YOU ARE READING
CLUCK NO
PoetryA collection of both emotional and humorous poems about growing up and other frustrating parts of life that'll sound alright in your head, but just plain stupid out loud. !!!WARNING!!! This is not a compilation of chicken poems.
