My Eyes

January 17, 2018
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Everybody in our family has different eyes. My dad’s eyes are like a storm, filled with frustration but ever so fragile. Brown but almost as black as burt bread. My mom's eyes are like a hawk, always paying attention with patience. Blue similar to ocean waves as it washes on land. My sister's eyes are like glass, delicate once broken but durable too. Blue just like my moms, the evening sky as it slides down silently for the night. My brothers eyes are like the seasons, changing too quickly as time ticks by. Green equivalent to grass after a storm has passed.
But my eyes, my silly eyes, like burt bread but barely noticeable blades of grass, like a gust of wind and leafs floating aimlessly because my eyes are always wandering, fragile to look at up close, up close so you can see, is the three blind mice, is the boy who cried wolf, and you cannot see what so desperately wants to be noticed, the wolf howling in the distance. The blindness, the howl, and my eyes that many don’t see but crave the attention.

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