Weekender2_AlvaroAzcarraga

Poem: The Schoolyard

Callused palms, and grass-stained elbows. Their cheeks flushed with afternoon play. My heart jolts in my chest at the sound of pierced screams, before I look up to see them laughing. They tug and swing on shined monkey-bars, daring each other to kiss the girl next to them.   I
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notebook

Notes from my journal: Seasons of Selfhood

When I was about 8 years old, I realized I sucked at writing and promptly abandoned my dream of becoming a poet. But for someone who perpetually promises to never write down any of her stupid thoughts, I sure have a lot of pocket-sized notebooks.
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