I breathe, inhaling and exhaling

Listening to the kids at the end of the block play

One was wearing red

One was wearing white

And one in black standing in the corner

 

I breathe, observing and watching

Looking over I see the one in black frowning

Looking over I see the others shouting

And looking over I anger and sadness

 

I breathe, feeling the air and closing my eyes

I sense the hurt

I feel the pain

I go back to my childhood games and recount all the memories all the torment and all the names

 

Looking over I become sad overwhelmed with my emotions

I cry

I write.

 

Looking over I remember my past

Feeling left out

I write what I see, two kids playing and one that reflected me

I feel for the one in black

I analyze

Then I realize

His mother came out with bandages and alcohol

He cried a little and went back to playing

 

Writing comes from observations

Every story has different mystification

What others may observe

Is wrong in a sense,

Writing therefore becomes an outlet to creativity, to expression, and to a story.