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: 
My family
My community


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741