ninestars

Hey, Mr. P,

I saw a paper airplane 
and remembered you.
It's been too long — 
my paper world rips;
these hands are painted with cuts.

Body nested in the damp grass, 
the sky gazes over my skin. 
Feet pulled by the still stars 
while the earth keeps racing. 

Create

writing

medium or genre

poetry

body

this is my routine;

come home from school

open to this the first chance I get

write.

Write 

write 

write 

I'm

confused

did I do it

what happened?

You were melancholy earlier

what is going on

what did I miss

was it me?

You talk in subtle hints

but what are you hinting at?

“You’re beautiful.”

“I’m not.”

“I love you.”

“You don’t.”

“You live in the stars.”

“My feet are planted on the earth.”

“But your eyes are reflecting them.”

“They’re not.”

“Believe me.”

Who are we? 

Are we men 

in offices, yes that would still be 

us. 

But, I think we are also the boy who got a flag from the lady in the parade and waves it because he loves his country