Will I view it from the sky?
Or will I choose to see the ocean?
Hop straight in a plane, and fly?
A choice so hard, I want to cry.
The pressure is nothing more than commotion.
Now the real question ceases to exist,
They are too afraid to ask.
Will they be thought of or missed?
They’ll be at the top of my calling list.
They’ll be a priority, not just a task.
My parents say they’ll miss me so,
And this is where it gets tough.
I don’t know if I should stay or go?
But I believe it’s best for me though,
No matter how hard and rough.
Did I use the proper rhythm for this poetry form?