The day falls
in a flaring orange death,
and my father calls,
under his breath,
"The fun outside is done,
now we can make paper airplanes son!"
I run inside,
paper in my hand,
little patience to see,
my plane fly across the land.
Dad tells me to fold left,
but I fold right,
he folds over,
but I fold under,
he folds up,
but I fold down,
he swipes through,
but I flip it around.
I crumple and cry,
for creasing all the wrong lines.
"I killed my plane,
now it needs a shrine!"
But Dad tells me,
"Son, it's fine.
You can have mine."
A/N: Had to perform this for an in class poetry slam and made a few edits. This poem is probably one of my most personal so just thought it would be nice to polish it a bit more.
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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.
