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A Tree With A Million Rings

The stuffy smell
like over ripe fruit clings to my senses.
I get a prickly feeling as I see wrinkled forms
connected to breathing tubes,
slouching in wheel chairs,
eyes glazed with age.
And you. My grandfather.
Still alive. Still breathing. Still talking.
But on a different medium.
The medium of trees with
a million rings.
Walking through the hot hallways.
The air filled with tired souls, slowing my steps.
After only ten minutes.
You’re tired.
You want to go sit down
and rest.
As you talk about something
we nod our heads at you and each other.
As if what you’re saying makes sense.
When it really doesn’t.




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PaperArmageddonThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
yesterday at 8:52 pm:
I know what it's like to write a difficult poem. I'm glad you have shared this part of your life with us, even if it's a painful part. This is a beautiful but sad piece.
 
FemmeGeekThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. replied...
today at 5:15 pm :
Thank you so much! It isn't easy but it's a path to healing.
 
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