When we were kids, did we ever remember waking up?
Our first breaths would be like a whiff of spring.
Our mouths would open up to the air and receive
everything they were supposed to. White milk, nutrition,
a healthy dose of everything non-comatose.
Then we would learn to walk on smooth floors
with jagged feet, a pair of scissors. And we were told
not to run with scissors, but we did it anyway.
Out feet were our scissors, our weapons, our playground fancies.
It was always the kids with the sharpest scissors
who won the highest place on the monkey bars,
commandeered the slide, and dodged stray paper cranes
folded with weak hands and broken scissors.
He was knocked off his feet, and swept off into the sky,
helpless in the wind, because he could not run,
because he didn't have his scissors with him
at that time, or maybe he was never born with them.
And so after that incident, we took care to never part
ways with our scissors, so we may never meet the same fate.
When we grew older, it mattered less and less
how long were our scissors, only that we knew how to use them
to pin down stray scraps of paper helplessly caught
in breezes that crossed our ways. And we grinned
and grabbed hold of them and rode on their wings,
then dumped in the trashcan months later,
or flushed down the toilet with tears
and blood. Because our scissors were sharp,
and they always were.
But everything began to numb years later
with the hardness of sharpness,
and everything we touched cut in half
helplessly between our fingers,
everything we wanted to hold slipped through
in ragged tattered tears, and everywhere we reached
there was a chaos of blinding stars and split nuclei,
and we cried and cried
because our scissors had finally failed us.
And we were swept off our feet and into the sky,
cutting our way into the breeze as it ached
with the pain we cut into ourselves.
Our mothers just sighed into their wombs,
and told their new children
not to play with scissors.
Quote by icaneatcatfood
On second thought, **** tuning forks. You best be carrying around a grand piano that was tuned by an Italian
This reads like a beautiful film, music not harmonizing the words but dictating them with stories to tell, movements of airplanes, indeed creating them from paper and playground memories - we never had the controls to make sense of it, but that was half the fun.

Later on is later on, just as the story goes, so let time flow like you have and eventually we'll figure out that we're all old and wanting of those scissors once again, sharper than they've ever been, but trying all the harder to make an even cut. And that's the way it goes with rhyme schemes such as these, free-flowing and ever-sensing of the hypocrisy we'll raise our children with, while entertaining old schoolyard friends, speaking of the times dirt was thrown in the faces of asthma stricken kids who loved it as much as we did, though perhaps for different reasons.

This is right up there again. Brilliant.

"with the hardness of sharpness," wasn't too much of a fan of that line though.
"But everything began to numb years later" - I love how this line swings the nostalgic innocence and joy in the other direction. Very powerful piece, I really loved it.

Thanks for your crit on my piece earlier as well