for how my life turned out to be.
Hid my dreams behind a shelf,
found a picture and wanted you to see.
It wasn't my fault nor my mistake,
If only you would've cared, then maybe I could've played in that dream football arena...
Yes, your son is an average engineer today, but can you talk a wild guess for whose sake?
So I'll drop off this photo at your place, while I'm on my way to my son's first show as a ballerina.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from writers in Poets and other communities.
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson2 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.