Chelsey M. Smith

My hands itch
To put words down on paper,
To express my thoughts
Through pen,
...

I grew up where a creek flows
And across the street corn grew in rows.
We walked every night to the ice cream store.
We listened at the bridge, pretending to be at the sea shore.
...

Hands are a story.
They tell the story of times gone by
The life of someone special
The loss of that special someone too.
...

She says
“Today I finally finished a poem.”
“ Congratulations.”
I say.
...

The deep brown eyes shine with tears as they look up at the moon
Hoping beyond hope that they will be saved soon
Across the sand the brown feet walk
The body that they carry to exhausted to even talk.
...

I open the cover of my history book
And flip through all the pages.
I open my eyes to what they might see, I take a gander; I take a look.
As I flip through these pages I flip through years of wars
...