Reid@YWP

this is not a poem. 

this is not a song.

this is not metaphor, a sonnet, an ode, not a ballad, a rant, not even a dream–

this is a plea. 

The sun hangs high, a golden blaze,
Filling the sky with unblinking gaze.
It watches over the land, fierce and bold,
Turning the ground to burnished gold.

I write too much of things that aren't real. The imagined fear and pain of living a life I haven't got.

This life I have, this life is real, and I am on the precipice of demise. 

Blue and black blur as the football spirals through the air, 

My hands outstretched, 

The ball tumbling closer and closer. 

I drop it. 

I don’t think enough people 

Consider the value of being nice.  

Hold a door open for 

Someone you don't know. 

Give a sandwich to