Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
tavia-robshawPoems
Camron street. The boy will the vile tongue. His mouth spewing nasty words. The blue bike with the white tires. The boy riding circles around me. You can’t do this. I was eight Sitting on the bike I picked my feet up. Slowly pushing myself forward. Feet resting on the pedals. Propelling myself forward. Forgetting the brakes. I was eight Knowing the pain. The sharpness of the rock protruding from my knees. The road rash bleeding onto the tar filling in the outlines on the ground. My tear soaked cheeks flushed red. I was eight Getting up from under nether the pile of metal holding me down. Getting back up and finishing my ride. I was eight The boy looking irate not knowing what to think. Proving him wrong I had thought. The boy still showing his vial tongue. His mouth still spewing nasty words. You’re a girl. Girls can’t ride bikes. I was eight. I laughed. Riding circles around him. Angrily he left me. Slamming the door to his cousin’s house. The house shuddered with anger. I was eight. As I rode home with a smile. My leg still bleeding. My rode rash still burning. The scar scabbing from where the rocks protruded from my eight year old knees. I was eight.
0
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 8:53 AM UTC
Eight
Camron street. The boy will the vile tongue. His mouth spewing nasty words. The blue bike with the white tires. The boy riding circles around me. You can’t do this. I was eight Sitting on the bike I picked my feet up. Slowly pushing myself forward. Feet resting on the pedals. Propelling myself forward. Forgetting the brakes. I was eight Knowing the pain. The sharpness of the rock protruding from my knees. The road rash bleeding onto the tar filling in the outlines on the ground. My tear soaked cheeks flushed red. I was eight Getting up from under nether the pile of metal holding me down. Getting back up and finishing my ride. I was eight The boy looking irate not knowing what to think. Proving him wrong I had thought. The boy still showing his vial tongue. His mouth still spewing nasty words. You’re a girl. Girls can’t ride bikes. I was eight. I laughed. Riding circles around him. Angrily he left me. Slamming the door to his cousin’s house. The house shuddered with anger. I was eight. As I rode home with a smile. My leg still bleeding. My rode rash still burning. The scar scabbing from where the rocks protruded from my eight year old knees. I was eight.
tavia-robshaw
Written by
tavia-robshaw
American
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 8:53 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem