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red shoes and birthdays

22.

It seems so BIG. So much older. Like I skipped a couple of years and fell into the cool, older-young person scene. I don’t feel like much of anything I used to feel like last year. I feel more independent and therefore in a sense more alone sometimes. I have sprouted wings that didn’t used to be there. I am much readier to fly away than ever before. Not all days are easy ones, preparing to fly on my own. My life has changed and I am changing with it. I don’t feel like writing much of anything new right now, so I will share an anthology of old writing.

the way I see it-

I see picnics strewn about the sugar white beach sand like confetti. Concerts are held in parks on vast expanses of emerald lawns. Lemonade stands and bake-sales fund childish endeavors. Little girls in melon and canary-colored dresses keep faces pale under dainty straw hats; the advice of old, wrinkled grandmothers. The abundance of a mother’s love is passed around with warm brownies and vanilla ice cream, while butterscotch tans deepen with each hunt for seashells.  There seems to be no end to cool sandwiches, sweet tea, and tart lemon meringue pie, more plentiful than June Bugs in July. I see stars over dark shadows of trees, and fireflies hovering in the heavy summer air. Yellow-green and amber life, blinking in the falling evening.

park in winter-

monotone greys
stand like a wall,
chilling shadows grip desperate trees;
their frozen fingers
clawing at the bitter sky.
an abandoned bench and orphaned street lamp
remain alone, oppressed by the cold.
even Autumn’s strong colors
bow to the ruler of winter.

in between dreams-

We’re in between dreams
On a sea of sub-consciousness
Listening to the sounds of sailing moons and shooting stars
Under a constellation of holes to heaven
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