My world

March 27, 2011
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The tree, rough, like the middle school it resides in
The bark raised in weary defense
Grass, valiantly poking out from the sand
The ones who stand out from the rest

The sky, a cloudless blue, taunting perfection
Which no one can achieve
The bee's, buzzing merrily in the warm autumn day
Faces the danger, doesn't flee

My hands, young yet aged, stroke the bark
And water the parched blade
Won't mind coming clouds, no matter how dark
And to the world ahead I will be brave





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