She swings upon the playground,
Bright blue ribbons in her hair,
And the kids tell her that she's weird,
But she doesn't really care,
She goes home to her mother,
Who asks about her day,
She's happy being six years old,
Since there's always time to play.
She looks out at the playground,
From her cold and hard school chair,
And the kids all call her crazy,
And rip the ribbons from her hair,
She goes home to her mother,
But she doesn't ask about her day,
She doesn't enjoy being ten,
Because there isn't time to play.
Her new school has no playground,
And the kids have learned to swear,
They tell her she's a waste of space,
And she decides to cut her hair,
She goes home to her mother,
But she's working late instead,
She wishes she wasn't fifteen,
And that she could just be dead.
She drives to her old playground,
And sits on the swings seat,
Before she sees a bright blue ribbon,
Lying crumpled at her feet,
She'd go home to her mother,
But she no longer lives there,
Being eighteen is a lot of work,
When there's nobody that cares.
She's learnt to hate all playgrounds,
Since the sight fills her with dread,
And the voices of the children,
Come flooding back into her head,
She wishes she could go back,
To when she didn't care,
Where the only thing that came untied,
Were the ribbons in her hair.
- e.h
YOU ARE READING
Poems
Poetry"If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die." - This book will contain all of my favorite poems. None of them are mine, so I am not taking credit for any of them. However, if I decide to write a poem, and post it here then I will write my...
