Hopes too high.
Come crashing down like a kite cut from the sky.
Failure to fly
Creates a crumpled figure
Crushed into dirty snow.
My nose bleeds through my fingers.
I wipe my hands on my pants
Then raise them to catch the blood again.
There's no stopping it.
The legs of my pants cling to me with wet.
The patches where I knelt
Have turned a shade of icy, bloody brown.
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2 comments:
ohh, i like it.
but i don't understand the title, which makes me like it more. jk.
well, the title isn't really a title. i didn't have a title. i wrote this little rushwrite a year ago. there's an explanation for you.
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