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The halls are growing quiet here,
In my empty world of empty people,
Who whisper “impossible” in their sleep.
The halls are growing colder here,
In my private school of private girls,
Who are scared of what the world may keep.
The walls are waking here,
In my little mind of little dreams,
Which are too fragile to be shared.
The walls are hissing secrets here,
In my deep eyes with deep eyelashes,
Which flutter when I’m scared.
The carpets are stirring here,
In my growing school of growing girls,
Who mourn a classmate lost.
The carpets are screaming here,
In my tired world of tired people,
Who cannot pay life’s cost.
The halls are growing colder here,
On my shallow shoulders, shallow heart,
Which can’t carry the question “why?”
The halls are growing quiet here,
In my curious ears to my curious mind,
Which focuses too much on days gone by.
We whisper that it’s possible here,
We answer the “why?” and the “what for?”
We finally share our dreams here,
And we wake the halls once more.



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Morganne E. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Jan. 20, 2012 at 2:47 pm:
Whoa. This is really good. I love the repetition of "the halls are growing quiet hear."
 
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