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