Poetry

Pot holes

The ball is rolling

Swerving to avoid the clutching hands

And searching eyes

Of salt-caked whispering demons.

‘You don’t want to do that

Why on earth would you want to do that

When there’s so much more you could do?’

But I don’t want more,

I want what I’ve always wanted,

And now that it’s clear for everyone to see

Panic has spread throughout the school

And those harmless seeming founders

Have become piranhas.

No matter how steep the hill becomes

I will reach the peak.

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