Classwork

Named classwork because this writery is stuff I did in class. You know, when I was supposed to be listening.

Slipping through my fingers

Slipping through my fingers,

Tiny grains of sand,

The seaweed strokes my hand,

Slipping through my fingers,

The best summer we ever had.

Problem.

I watch the car come to a halt, splashing me with mud. My rain-soaked hair hands limply as I open the door and slide into the back, shivering. My head pounds, and I ask the driver: “Mum’s in hospital again, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” the driver says. He pauses, and his voice softens. “Sorry.” he murmurs.

I smile slightly, and try to hold back the tears. Mum had never admitted her “problem” as the doctors called it. But I can’t remember the last time she was sober since dad died.

In a final moment of anguish, I almost cried out. What am I going to do now?

But I know the answer already. Nothing.

Dark.

A face on a wall

Mirrors standing tall

A window stained black

The smile that he lacks

A room full of dark

A tree with no bark

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Filed under Poems, Writing

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