100 words of something called a poem, I sit here perplexed without a clue. Some mystical place once called home As a child I was free to run and roam. Robert Frost, great poet, what shall I do?
I remember the cutting words and fights. Not understanding as a three year old Caring not of the wrongs and rights. Overturned furniture with shattered lights And all the dread that those walls hold.
A stay at grandma’s for a very long time. Returning to find a big pile of toys Abandoned and broken, all were mine. At a loss for more words that rhyme, Where are my brothers, the older boys?
Home is a place I shall never again know. Nothing but nightmares left in the past, A faraway place from so long ago. Memories and feelings an eternal foe, Content to be free of you finally, at last.
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