Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dec 2018
We stood near where the sheep came to relieve themselves; a crumbled brick wall around that old man's house who never greeted when we said hello.
"He's a mean *******," I said with quiet finality, holding my hand up against the glaring sun and you said nothing, you were looking down at the dirt. I took my things and had to walk past him and his little house to get home.
andisashayi
Written by
andisashayi  F/South Africa
(F/South Africa)   
145
     ---
Please log in to view and add comments on poems