Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

Memory

Old wood creaked

forming goosebumps on my arms,

as I stood in the clearing

that hugged the shed of nightmares.


Leaves, stained with

lost innocence, rustled in the wind while

the thick, humid air

strangled my lungs.


My eyes stare into the abyss

of my past, now guarded by wooden shields.

The whistle of the wind

carries his voice,

and the voices of my demons,

here to haunt me.




Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

Site Feedback