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I’ll handle the rejection as a merit in my spirit, as I did once when I was a kid. 
The townspeople will turn all of the sprinklers on when spring has made its arrival apparent on April Fools. 
The drops of water on my cheeks would be mistaken for mist drops if this were photo season. 
Where the grass lay endless underneath our bare feet, colors swirling from the trees into the ground the hollow ache is destined to depart and they would be gone, forever indeed, as long as youth could be everlasting. 
And perhaps, the ground was hollow as I, vivid in some times, emerald-like my mother’s spiritual eyes in which I get lost at times, whenever we were to amuse her together brother and I. 
Though, the reason to be behind one's eclipse of a smile would be honor roll worthy, which acclaimed 
I have gotten in my years in American Dream. 
Our chests would finally ache from inspiration to be a reason in one’s life rather than a sorrowful and hollow entity. 
And alas, I welcomed myself into real life once I turned ten, on the boat, we passed the Mediterranean once, one I cannot forget even if I were to have dementia, 
I’m not one to lie to your face about my sentiments, I'm done coating and not complaining over yours, it has cost me a fortune to extract another piece of my soul haven’t you ever considered the possibility of me dying from heartache.
You’ll never believe what you haven’t seen nor lived through to tell, the children of the town were meant to stand in my way on behalf of the orders of the people, the townspeople who loathed our existence but we paid no mind and it drove them crazy, a manic in disguise they were possibly identical to me, not appearance wise, but how they were driven to dementia. 
As every other person would essentially live through to see themselves in the mirror,
unrecognizable. 
I won’t push them as they would push me, reluctancy courses through my veins as Niagara Falls, and I’ll consume the pain I’m used to embracing. 
One by one, I’ll lose myself but all would be worth it if it meant to stitch back the wounds that have been reopened over the years. 
Though I’m not one to haunt you, because I read the billboard as we passed Interstate 695 beltway, that life is far from dancing on green grass, 
it is as if dancing on thin ice, ready to crack beneath the pressure of my weight bit by bit.
Alas, when the shadows of the very end coat over me as a blanket. 
I forgot to tell you, that it has been a family tradition for our ghosts to haunt us- day by day, night by night, and remind us- where we have gone wrong in the eyes of the townspeople. 
You can’t take what you can’t give, and I’m done taking from you.
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