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Moving

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Opening up the door—
cracking the window—
welcoming in the
sea of new beginnings.
Armed in faded denim and tight cotton,
I approach these battle lines,
ready with myself as my battalion.
Pathetic as the French sans Napoleon—
but all I’ve got.

I’m no psychic,
but I knew this day would come.
My friends couldn’t be my shield forever.
I’d have to start over sometime;
with myself all alone.
But like fire and gasoline—
this is a combination—
without rectification.
Quite literally,
I am the rabbit
caught in the hunter’s trap.
Figuratively screwed.

I suppose if I had moved to
Friendlyville, Iowa—
We’re-All-Nice, Kansas—
or somewhere of the like,
the transition may be easier.
But this isn’t a picturesque town.
Hardly anyone is Stanford, Connecticut material.

This is a war,
where every day the sides change.
One day I’m with the Red—
the next with the Blue—
hell, third day, I’m Chartreuse!
I don’t know who my friends are.
I don’t know what side I am.
In this sea of backstabbing, complaining, vicious, downright mean—
“nice, wonderful and perfect young adults”—
I don’t know who to trust.

But I’d be a hypocrite,
If I complained to my friends much.
They all know how I feel.
They know it sucks.
And with that knowledge in me—
and them shielding the pain temporarily at times—
I still have the strength,
To open my door.
To open my window.
to approach these battle lines,
armed in faded denim and tight cotton…





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