This Poem

Was I twelve when I wrote this, or maybe thirteen? A few years ago I discovered a book I’d gotten as a gift when I was twelve. This poem was one of six written on ruled paper that were carefully folded and stored in the book.

This Poemchild writing

Heading out the door
Looking for some more
Going to the store

I might have to sing
In a crazy sort of swing
To a tune the band won’t play

A sidewalk crack
Gave a heart attack
In various shades of black

This poem rhymes
Too many times
And has nothing much to say

This Poem

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