8 November, 2013 - 09:57
Sixteen, by Heather W, P7
This is my letter to you,
To make me feel better about what I do.
My hands are numb as I’m writing
As the frosty wind is biting.
I don’t want to have to be part of this
I don’t want anything to do with this
But I am sixteen.
I have to.
Sixteen and fighting.
If I were to be at home, I would be fixing lighting.
Sixteen and holding a gun,
If I were to be at home,
I would be in a bakery making a bun.
I can hear the whistle blow,
“Get up! It’s time to go!”
I must live each day as if it’s my last
Then, I hear a deafening blast.
My body is being blown to pieces,
At least now I’m in peace.
Today you wear a poppy to remember me.
Wear your poppy with pride
To remember people like me who died.
I was sixteen.
It shouldn’t have happened.