The air is cold,
Biting at my fingers and nose
As I wait at the end of the street,
In the dark,
Waiting for the bus.
Why the heck am I here?
Why am I not in bed?
I should be somewhere warm,
Wearing sweats and a comfy sweater,
And watching the snow fall.
Now, as I sit in my Econ class,
Trapped in a cold hard desk,
And I watch the snow fall outside,
I wish I was anywhere but here.
I want to be home,
With a blanket and some Irish breakfast tea,
And watch Jane Eyre,
Because the snow is falling,
It's too cold to go outside,
And it's a sweater day.
YOU ARE READING
If You Knew Me
PoetryThese are the words that my fingers write and my heart cries when my mouth can't speak.
