Dec 7

You'd melt me to a puddle,
And stomp through me in boots,
Then politely clean me up,
No wonder I was confused.

A small collection of water,
Weak and backless with no voice,
Stomped through, walked on,
I forgot I had a choice.

Once a passive puddle,
But now I am the rain,
Do you know what rain erases?
The flame.

No more power over me,
I'll choose when I fall,
And by fall I mean pour,
And by pour I mean stand tall.

Breanna Stockham
Written by
Breanna Stockham  Ohio
(Ohio)   
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