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The Chalkboard
My father is the green board,
Strong and sturdy,
But sometimes erased.
My mother is the sill,
Holding us in place,
Yet letting us write our
Own stories.
My brother,
Is the nail,
Scratching the surface,
An annoying noise,
Yet sometimes loved.
I am the chalk,
Writing my own stories,
But wearing out over time.
A chalkboard needs every part,
So does my family.

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