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Stolen Eraser

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They took away my eraser.

All of them.

Mommy, when I was 4.
Oblivious, not knowing death and it’s strength.

Daddy, when I was 8.
Barely knowing the possibility of loss.

Alex, when I was 12.
Newly exposed to the evils of the world.

Amanda, when I was 15.
Alone and scared without ignorance and youth.

Handed to loss at only 4 years old,
Scared of death at 8.
Stolen from innocence at only 12 years old,
and forced to grow up early at 15.

They took away my eraser.

All of them.

I could not erase my mistakes,
so I would not make them.
I could not erase my tears,
so I would not shed them.
I could not erase my past,
so I would not think it.
But whenever I ask, do I want an eraser?
The answer is always, I don’t need it.



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This article has 2 comments. Post your own!

TellingHerstory said...
Jun. 2, 2011 at 9:43 am:
Did I inspire you in this poem?
 
drivenbiimusic replied...
Jun. 2, 2011 at 2:04 pm :
Maybe . . . . ;)
 
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