Sitting on a swing
used to be
electrifying.
That feel
of all that can
and would be.
Knowing there are strong hands
pushing your back
still there when you rise,
still there when you fall.
The swing creaks
as you dig your toes
into the ground
and push
then lurch
and suddenly
you're off
all faith
in this plastic beneath you.
Plastic.
But that's not what matters.
You're flying.
So close
that you reach your hand out
and imagine,
just imagine
the puff of cloud
in your hand.
Then
you glide back,
but it's ok,
'cause you'll be up there
again
soon,
with just a mild swing of your feet
so you smile.
How different from now.
No strong hands.
Just wobbly feet.
Pushing off
takes more energy
than before.
Sometimes you think
it'll never reach the sky.
That cloud is so far away.
Everything is so far away.
Maybe somehow
you get moving
but it's not the same.
You fear the ground
more
than you reach for the sky.
Why?
YOU ARE READING
Feathers: A Book of Poetry
PoetryA pencil is the spotlight of a soul. It tells them its okay to overflow. It tells them ideas are art, and that the best ones are masterpieces. Feathers is a collection of poetry by me to convey the beauty and undeniable strife of the world, and emot...
