There is barely a handful of boys I remember the moment we met.
One was when we were kids,
Freckled and still learning.
I bet the skinny girls and nonstraight guys
Would be in complete disbelief of it
But it was me,
I am a country song.
And he picked grass and he picked me.
The next was true.
A friend I cry over.
He was sweet and kind.
And so was I.
Shoes didn't matter as he laced his fingers
Over his mouth.
To admire,
To realize beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
The next is bitter.
And I talk about it in anger.
**** him.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 5:19 AM UTC
There is barely a handful of boys I remember the moment we met.
One was when we were kids,
Freckled and still learning.
I bet the skinny girls and nonstraight guys
Would be in complete disbelief of it
But it was me,
I am a country song.
And he picked grass and he picked me.
The next was true.
A friend I cry over.
He was sweet and kind.
And so was I.
Shoes didn't matter as he laced his fingers
Over his mouth.
To admire,
To realize beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
The next is bitter.
And I talk about it in anger.
**** him.
Request permission to use this poem