From the Grave

A poem from thirteen-year-old me.

I started writing when I was young (like most writers). Much of my life was tumultuous. I moved a lot. Worked after school to help my mom pay the electric bill. The fridge was mostly empty growing up; a loaf of bread, sliced cheese, and a package of hot dogs. I have a childhood friend who can attest to this fact. I have exactly two items which survived the upheaval of my younger years. One is a handmade, quilted advent calendar and it brings me joy during the holidays. The other item is this poem I’m sharing with you. It might be utterly terrible, but it reminds me of the young girl I used to be, trying to make sense of the world.

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Since I’ve decided to share old things…this is a picture from the beginning of my photography journey.

An innocent smile,

A childish stare,

A worn beaten face,

torn and teared.

The wind is his voice,

the rain his tears,

the world is his play toy,

though dressed in fear.

He hates,

and breaks us,

but we still melt to the floor,

and kneel to his cry as if bonafide.

He pulls at our heartstrings,

that sing so loud,

and we sung it back,

stubborn and proud.

An innocent smile,

a childish stare,

weeping for us all,

when listening to our prayers.