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The Year I Was Myself

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I sit on the chilly maroon bricks,
Silently gazing upon the shrubbery and brush.
Comparing a mammoth, stringy bush, to a small, fuzzy mint plant
Makes me contemplate my dwindling innocence.
The snow white sun takes me to a place.
I’m in a buttery colored room with popcorn floor tiles.
My elbows resting upon a grainy stained wood table.
I have perfect bearings of my self and surroundings.
I am a dorky looking chubby kid,
Who didn’t care about what anyone was thinking of him.
I scan through rounded rectangle glasses,
Observing the warm, inviting room that’s teeming with children.

These are my fifth grade memories.

A skinny, young boy with curly hair that's hue was of aged leather.
He sits next to me, his glasses gleaming as he laughs.
Across from me,
A kid who I remember looking like,
A mental escapee from Santa’s workshop. (Ha)
I was a bouncy, free soul
No conforming, no reputation to care about.
This was my swan song in that town.
I expressed my self,
No matter how "un-cool" it was.

I’m back in the garden of memories.
The sky and ground conflicting.
Sky: warm, ground: cool.
I look up at the seemingly clearer sky.
I am clean.
-- At peace.





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