The sky is not falling
Chicken Little went home
I wish this corrupted land was not my home
The politicians flew too close to the sun
I have now learned how a cheeto can run
The sky is falling
The world is grey
This is not how the world should stay
So I will write poems
And try to be loud
Until the sky is rebuilt
Every
Single
Cloud.
Posted in response to the challenge Sky.
I wish for a day where my dreams do not change for each day of the week.
But perhaps I do not.
Because some days I wish for a future where I am always busy something, in a city that sleeps even less than I do.
We cheer and shake our cowbells, waving at passing cars.
Sometimes they roll down their windows, clapping and cheering back.
Sometimes they roll their eyes and look away, avoiding eye contact.
I'm not drowning in water, but words.
A feeling comparable to what I imagine standing under a waterfall feels like.
The longer you stand there, the more painful and heavy it gets.
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