My childhood poem

I'm running down a hill,

Can not stop,

Feeling the cement scrap against my face,

with every piece of skin in it mixed in with tar,

herring the scraps of skin ribbing off and replaced with tar,

laying there paralyzed,

Cant see anything with so many tears in my eyes,

With the stinting from the pain,

The world was spinning,

With every yell I heard my friend went to get help,

Wishing I never ran down the hill,

With a strange stomping of feet coming near,

I saw a man come to get me,

He picked me up from the ground,

Then swung me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes,

i clung to him for dear life crying some more,

When we passed by some of the other teachers,

There face they made was filled with horror,

The wet tears went down my bloody face,

My mother running in with a worried face,

Terrified if i was okay,

Swooped down and gave me a hug,

And said everything is going to be okay.