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- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
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- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
I watch as dazed children walk by the porch, with the sun in their eyes,
The sweet smell or buttery candy on their breaths,
Their skin painted by the warm summer day,
As they grasp onto the last bits of happiness they can before waking lazily back home,
The sun sets, warming their cheeks, making their lids heavy with the summer sleep
I hold onto the glass of tart lemonade, observing the drops of cold water sliding down the glass,
Leaving a refreshing kiss of moisture in my palm,
I stare at the chair you used to sit in,
Noticing how the seat has been affected
An indent on the seat, from our lazy summers on the porch
From our hours of drinking lemonade and oatmeal cookies,
From our days of heaving meaningless, chatters, to talks about life, and love.
I love to think about those summers
When we were younger,
When I was foolish, vulnerable, bird hearted and made of fear and flowers.
When you would try and convince me that my glass was half full, and not half empty the way I always claimed.
Those days, I felt broken and lost,
And you where there, always. Always there by my side.
Your eyes, always strong, knowing, warm, bold.
I felt close to you.
And when we would walk to the park, and have those strange little talks about how ants never go on vacations,
Or how, Africa must be one of the most beautiful places on earth-
I would feel complete, and perfectly happy.
Now you’re gone, and amazingly, I’m stronger than I could ever be.
Sometimes, I think I feel you;
Your hand, on my shoulder,
Or your lips, brushing my cheek while I’m still asleep.
I’ve always been the superstitious type, you know that.
I like to believe that you visit me, where ever it is you left to.
That you watch as I paint a picture of you, or the moon,
Or of the children jumping rope on the sidewalk.
I like to think, that after all these years, you remember what we had,
Who we were, and how, in a way, we both helped each other grow,
I like to think, that you’re proud of who’ve I’ve become
And proud of what I can do, all on my own now.
Like, how I’ve learned to hold an umbrella, proudly above head,
When the rain, is hitting hard on the pavement.
And I’ve kept my heart safe, from the cruelties of man,
But vulnerable, to the pleasures of life,
and open to souls not much unlike mine.
My feet, strong beneath me,
My legs, unshaking,
My breath, balanced.
I’ve become like a tree.
Giving, and strong.
I give my love, to those who need it,
Like you used to, when you were still here on this beautiful and ugly world.
The stars are up high now, the moon, just a slither of a crescent.
All the children, have fallen into deep sleep, dreaming of carousels, and sunny days.
The sound of crickets chirping, coaxing me into my home.
The warm night, reminding me of that last embrace we had, before I had to let you go.
I walk into my home,
Two glasses of lemonade sit between our two chairs.
The lemonade in one glass touching the rim, close to spilling, the other glass, half full.