ich Hat auf Fenster gesessen in der morgen. ich bin traurig und ich Hat fur eine lange Zeit dort geweint...

auf wiederschen


i drank hot chocolate on my roof and counted the stars. im pretty sure i counted only twelve of them. then my mama caught me on the roof told me to come in so i do not catch pneumonia. i was saddened by this. next morning i was up once more asking myself of all the things i wanted to speak of with god. the window sill was chilled to the touch from the shadows of night that bring the mornings dew of dry tears t set upon the skin of mine so still they sat. the day break was as beautiful as i remembered it from below. i wondered if the children in their beds knew what this felt like to be able to kiss the morning when nothing was a move it was silent still like the wind that hugs your wrists gently. like the mother i saw a couple days ago holding onto the hand that belonged to a little girl her daughter i presume. my nose had caught red as so did my cheeks. i moved myself to the basement to sit upon the glass broken. the plain sheets covered the many old cushions desks peoplethings. the ghostly covers that go against the days fog. im tired i said outloud to myslef. im tired im sleeping here on this cold tin roof i call home. i dont need no bed covers warmth. the city lights i see above the trees with music that plays that smooth jazz is all i need to help me fall here. i posted myself in a position that reached far across. so delicately loosely vined i was. perched upon the dry rain i see. im like a child of five always will be that is who you i we see. i like being five. im sixteen two months from now i will be seventeen. i do not want to grow up so i wont. no one said in the bible we had to. so for now i sleep here on this tin roof watchingt he times go by. now i count to the clouds that turn colors of an artists palette. one two three five fifteen twentyfive one o' fi-

as i slept i recalled telling someone once or being told. its not the age you are in reality it the age you hold onto that makes you who you are. somehting is bugging you corinah tell me i want to help you. then my sister turns to me as i to her: its not the help one need its the memories we hold onto from that day that time. its the times we you me all care for them they do not know. i recalled sitting on the roof with her that day. so we cried now i cry simply i was being a child i still am i will always hold onto five. because its also the same amount of fingers on your hands.





im going to do many thing in life today. writing is not one im not amazing so please do not kill me for my grammer. i like it this way.