The old bike leaned
against the ancient tree
sitting patiently
waiting to be cleaned.
The rusty spokes sat
waiting to spin
framed by tyres
which we’re worn and flat.
The bent seat
peeled every minute
being strangled by lush veins
and has no heat.
The cracked handlebar
like a broken bone emerging from the flesh
that hanged off like nothing
that didn’t go very far.
The bikes wheel
an old crusty wheel.
Its black and popped
bent and wholey.
spins like noodles
dirty as mud.
Its been here for 4 years
hid in the bushes.
It doesn’t work
all soaked and wet.
little pieces off paint started to peal off
cobwebs all around it.
The bike lay on its old friend,
rusting away like a dead body.
The handle bars still,
like a trunch of a tree.
The paint falling off,
like dead skin.
The wheels is as useless,
as a car wheel frame.
The bike is old,
like a adult turtle.
The brakes are as useless,
like a broken pipe.
The pedals are as hard,
as a piece of gold.
The bike, once new with silver handle bars glinting proudly in the sunlight
now stands
alone
Quiet.
Wheels still and chain rusted.
Dreaming of adventures long expired.
Roads past and fields crossed.
Wheelies once attempted by brave generations of children long since grown.
Scary feelings of small children trying to ride without falling.
Falling like the golden autumn leaves.
Balanced yet unconscious as the years pass with
steady hands gripping tight.
An old rusty bicycle waiting..
Leaves covering it..
It sinks into the soil each second.
And each minute.
It wonders if someone will ever find it..
It rots each second wondering if someone will come and see it.
The bike waits.
And waits.
The Tireless Car
The tireless car had no tires and always slept.
The tireless car always lives in sadness and waits to grow his tires.
The tireless car awaits for a engineer, for someone to help.
The tireless car had no friends and happiness
The pedals creak ,
against the old ,broken tree.
Its handles burnt in the hot weather ,
your hands are hurt when you touch the metal .
The rubber wheel rubs against the grass ,
Peices of the rubber fly off whilest you ride it .
The paintwork peels off ,
like dry skin .
The oily chains rubs against your legs ,
whilest the oil drips off and the chains break .
The old bike leaned
against the ancient tree
sitting patiently
waiting to be cleaned.
The rusty spokes sat
waiting to spin
framed by tyres
which we’re worn and flat.
The bent seat
peeled every minute
being strangled by lush veins
and has no heat.
The cracked handlebar
like a broken bone emerging from the flesh
that hanged off like nothing
that didn’t go very far.
The pedals creak,
against the old, broken tree.
Its handles burnt in the hot weather,
your hands are hurt when you touch the metal.
The rubber wheel rubs against the grass,
Pieces of the rubber fly off whilst you ride it .
The paintwork peels off,
like dry skin.
The oily chains rubs against your legs,
whilst the oil drips off and the chains break.
you are a young joyful child playing in the swaying,strong wind.
you are spongebob squarepants living in a exotic pineapple
you are a vicious wild tiger roaring at a swift undangered deer
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