March 30th, 2016

My parents raised me, yet the children built me.

I was all turf and matured flowers.

I was a plucked three-leafed clover, later stomped on.

The innocence of a child is seen in the eyes of my sister,

Who cries at a scrapped knee,

who can't ride a bike because of fear.

I write poetry upon poetry

With sadness sewed into the cracks.

Slowly dripping with childhood fears.

I ripped memories out of the throat of childhood,

Now, I've got nothing left except burning blisters

And the feeling of insanity.