You cannot run.
Sun shines on your face,
but the scrapes
on your skin burn.
Your fingers dig into the dirt,
mud staining your hands.
But that's not all,
is it?
Twigs snap
and birds sound
like alarms from above.
There is no time
to stop and smell
all of the flowers
when you're caught
in all the thorns.
not a bed of roses
YOU ARE READING
Titles are Overrated
PoetryThis is the equivalent of Notes app on your phone, so yeah, exposing myself. I guess it's considered poetry. Enjoy. :)
