Rivers
Water,
salty-sweet,
runs down,
over black feathers,
fake and plastic.
It creates streams as it runs.
It collects memories,
memories broken,
like a shattered mirror,
it collects the slivers of glass.
It turns into a river that runs,
runs over pink fleshy hills,
tinted by minerals.
The river separates into smaller streams,
they run valleys,
over red mountains,
into dark caves.
But they mostly end up in a river of red.
They fall from the feathers,
burning the river crimson,
like a comforting acid.
These rivers were made by the sharpest metals,
and by the hurt of a broken child.
salty-sweet,
runs down,
over black feathers,
fake and plastic.
It creates streams as it runs.
It collects memories,
memories broken,
like a shattered mirror,
it collects the slivers of glass.
It turns into a river that runs,
runs over pink fleshy hills,
tinted by minerals.
The river separates into smaller streams,
they run valleys,
over red mountains,
into dark caves.
But they mostly end up in a river of red.
They fall from the feathers,
burning the river crimson,
like a comforting acid.
These rivers were made by the sharpest metals,
and by the hurt of a broken child.
♠ ♠ ♠
My friend's mom, works with my dad, told me that he was talking "trash" about me, and i was in school and i just felt like cutting and crying, but i couldn't so i went to ACC English II and we had to write whatever so i wrote a poem.