Growing Better

The grass beneath my fingers lilts

Too fragile to hold

Even as my sunshine tilts

Too big but not too old

 

The world is a bath of colors

Pressed against my breast

The pretty shades of others

Then knowing I am less

 

What's it mean for a childhood

To be a nightmare?

To feel bad replaced by good

To never wish I'm there

 

Nostalgia seems a petty game

Still my mind lingers

To moments that weren't the same,

Grass beneath my fingers

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community

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