Grass Blade

Grass Blade

This blade of grass is perfect. It is a blade of a sword. It is straightened up, however beautifully twisted and the tip so delicate as if I could cut myself with it. The surface is sticky and rough on one side, but soft on the other. It is like a fine paper used for drawing. It merely has any marks on it except for the light green mark that I made when I held on to the blade of grass to pull out. It is such a delicate blade of grass that I feel bad I pulled it out. It has a fresh smell of a grass being mowed. Well, it used to…

It used to be so fresh and beautiful. It used to be a color of spring green. It used to be so soft. It is not the same after keeping it shut in my language notebook. The blade of grass that I have in front of me now is a hard and pointy, dried up grass. It does not have much to show. It does not have much to entertain. It finds it hard to talk to others. It keeps itself secret and private. It is not soft and is rather pointy. It hurts when someone tries to touch it. This grass blade is a glass blade.

But when you get a actual grip on this delicate blade of grass, it is still soft. You can feel it, I can feel it. It is still soft, but no one tries to touch it because it looks hard. Why is that? Because it changed? Changing is a natural and normal thing. Nothing can stay the same, and everything has its own beauty when they are being themselves. It’s time to open the language book and stay beautifully dry.

Author's Note

Do you think this is a goof piece of poetry? Should I change the structure and lines? Thank you for taking the time to read mine.