I'm almost sixteen and aspiring to become a writer. I started writing poetry in the ninth grade.
I sit and gaze at the legal white powder that
brings a smile to our children's faces.
I gaze and notice how quiet the town can get
when that first flake collapsed on the concrete.
Resting under elms, burning rodents scurry
The apparition slowly follows the trail of blood.
To the body of the mother to the roses.
On the verge of the end of sufferance,
Black shadow broke the gust,
left nothing but ash and dust.
Moths fly from the debris,
leaving everything behind as they flee.
Find the blood on the ceiling
of our love. To end, the mistake
I made. For ever being the one
that kept your heart. I loved