Kids from Yesterday

January 9, 2012
By Sarah McMullen BRONZE, Tucson, Arizona
Sarah McMullen BRONZE, Tucson, Arizona
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Dazed cocoa orbs,
bloodshot pale canvases.
Molly.
A beautiful digital photograph,
current surges, optical lenses, subconscious
paralyzed scenes.
Ignite the temperature of the sidewalks.
Breathing, exhaling, through the car door windows.
Intersections, gas stations,
cars escaping, running on disintegrating tar avenues.
Those nights do not emit, do not repeat fluorescent globes,
silhouettes of anatomy.
Bloodless polluting exhaust breaking through,
bruised cadavers.

The author's comments:
When I was younger I only had one real friend, and she and looked up to each other and protected each other from reality. As we got older and grew up we both changed in our different ways and now we don't talk anymore, or see each other. The title, "kids from yesterday," means that she and I were getting older and growing away from childhood, something that just happened, something I woke up to.
My poem is about a time that I want back, a moment I want to inhale. I miss her.

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