The Child Inside me

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Contently Deranged Travelers
09/09/16

Submitted: September 18, 2016

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Submitted: September 18, 2016

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A A A


09/08/16

 

Events are exaggerated.

Struggles mistaken as tragedies

As they expand,

Become forgotten,

And remain

Never dealt with.

I didn’t realize childhood is a gift;

Given and taken.

It starts out as nothing

But then it's cherished.

Field trips,

Like empire state building

So high up there.

Little boy lost his balloon up there.

Sometimes we forget how high up there!

Our dreams float up and stay stagnant where

They turn into clouds;

Trying to cover the sun that mocks us

But they mock us as well.

Colors were so vibrant then.

Our brains just starting to form memories;

A surreal fantasy,

Another stagnant dream.

Dizzy carousels and too much candy.

Green fields and learning who’s family.

I never grew up really.

This child inside refuses to die

And it cries when it sees my reflection.

It’s afraid.

It’s anxious.

I knew somehow people created their own reality

But I didn’t understand how.

I tried to fade out but I couldn’t completely

I didn’t know how to act;

How to be someone.

I was only me inside my head.

I was born dead;

A walking skeleton.

Not morbid but unfortunate;

Broken.

I felt like a sheep amongst wolves-

Like I was the only one with a soul.

My fear and confusion turned into anger.

I walked the fence and tried to avoid the monsters;

I glared.

“You gotta be tough”

Or they’ll tear you to bits.

I had already shed half of my skin;

Years of aimless walking

With a mocking sunburn, so crisp.

It made me sick.

Fear feels like a lifetime disease;

A demon that doesn’t let you be

Anything but lonely and bitter.

So I went it alone.

Through the vicious cycle of life’s chit chatter,

Through seasons;

I pretended it was an endless winter.

The snow kept me preserved.

It’s still winter in my mind.

Sunny days are paintings-

Not real life.

The ocean-

Just a collection of tears

Rivers-

Haunting mirrors.

The sunset still resembles Trix yogurt;

A pink-orange mixture.

The wind sounds like monster whispers.

When I wear yellow

I still feel like an awkward big bird.

I am still a kid.

And fortunately,

I can still pretend

That each day

I’m a different character.


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