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The Letter
A troubled youth,
we all do squander,
and as we grow,
away, we wander.
We place our feet
on shaky ground.
As the world
spins quickly 'round.
Quickly, we forget
the flowers in our hair,
the trucks on the mat,
slinkies on the stairs.
Entitled, we wait
for success to come leaping,
and in the night,
we remember childhood, weeping.
We soon settle down
in a world that won't see
the happy-go-lucky kid
we used to be.
Adversity haunts us,
tragedy taunts us.
Lingering, waiting,
our sin laudly flaunts us.
So I stand at the doorstep,
letter in hand.
"Come home now," it reads,
"put pain to an end."
Quietly, I rap
on my sweet youth's door,
but I find youth is not with me,
not anymore.
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