Dear sandstorm

Dear sandstorm,


I do not like you.
You make my face burn,
You make my hands sweat.
You make my mouth dry.
And you sometimes even make me want to cry.


When your gusts try to crush me with the door as I'm getting into the truck,
I just try to brush it off and blame it on my bad luck.
But then when you whip me in the face with a trash can lid,
I can't help but get angry like a 7 year old kid.


Can you please leave me alone?
Can you bother someone else?
Because quite frankly,
I'm getting sick of all these welts.

Your enemy,

York