From time to time I get the urge to write “poetry” or short stories. I haven’t shown them to anyone, so I don’t know if it’s any good or not. I’m my worse critic, that’s a fact. But what better place to try them out than here?
Playing In Dirt
The sky was crying on the ground,
That’s when I saw an angel frown,
She whispered that the things that hurt,
Were just like roses in the dirt.
This angel with a broken wing,
Promised to tell me everything,
I turned to run away in fear,
But stopped because she shed a tear.
I sat down where the roses grow,
And looked up at her brilliant glow,
I asked her how her wing got broke,
She seemed to cry before she spoke.
She pulled two roses from the dirt,
While both her eyes filled up with hurt,
She kissed the one without a sound,
And laid the other on the ground.
She whispered in her angel voice,
That roses really have no choice,
Again she looked at me with hurt,
And said, “people too must grow in dirt.”