books

one that I spent a lot of time thinking about.

 

 

Books

 

She moved across

The dry

Golden grass

As she stepped over

A stick

She sighed

Seeing a dead bird

Sorrow filled her

 

This is what I think

When I’m walking

Walking home from school

Trying to make my life a book

 

I read a book and think

How can I help?

Why can’t I go

Into the story 

                             When I’m writing

I feel the pang

                of slight jealousy        

 

As I write a fantasy

 a dream

Or memory.

 

Author's Note

sorry about the slight displacement, I tryed to fix it but I cant figure out how..