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Samantha Clark Poem
My childhood spread to the world in bottles of sun screen,
poured out into outstretched hands.
My childhood was painted across easels and written on walls,
Drawn far and wide, a Crayola-crayon land.
Childhood was served on plastic plates, microwave-safe,
To a table with plastic place sets.
Childhood was scissors found, and used, on not only paper,
But hair and chairs and everything else.
It was stickers and glue, playdoh and dolls.
It was broken hearts and broken bathroom stalls.
It was tears, and spankings, and moves.
It was fears, and boredom, and excitement at new shoes.
My childhood was a white house,
On a Hollywood Drive,
And a red house,
On Riverside Drive.
It’s the arguments, the kicking and screaming.
It’s the hugs, the kisses and dreaming.
It’s the little things, the band-aids and the duct-tapes
Can’t fix. It’s the cuts, the bruises, and the scrapes.
My childhood was a brown horse with a white star,
And a cream horse with a rainbow mane.
My childhood was an old, beaten-up silver car,
And a red doll, elmo, with worn out eyes and a long remembered name,
An old friend with a few rough patches from being thrown too far.
It’s staying out too long on snow days,
And jumping in puddles on rainy days.
Childhoods are the places we came from,
And the way we grew up.
My childhood is a memory frozen by a picture,
And loaded in a frame,
And stuck on a shelf,
To be viewed everyday.
It’s funny, the things we do
So we don’t forget.
Copyright © Samantha Clark | Year Posted 2011
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Details |
Samantha Clark Poem
The empty page stretches before me, a white blank page with nothing but ink and a pen to
fill its crevices. I pour out my ink-black heart, to stain the paper with use-less words of a fashion and I
know that nothing can hurt me now. My heart is spread far and wide in every word on every page I
write. It can never truly be found and pieced back together. Just like a personality, I am not one but
many. I may look like one but looks can be deceiving. Or have you not figured that out yet. I cannot
help you with whatever it is you are searching for, but maybe what you’re searching for is already
found and what you thought you had is really what is lost. Or maybe it is the other way around. Does
Blood Leave Black Stains Down The Window Panes, Or Have My Ink Covered Finger Tips Left Their
Marks There As Well. No matter, tomorrow’s storm will wash it away with the flood waters that pour
down from heaven. Rain is rolling down my window. Don’t cry. The window, broken, weathered, worn,
mirrors me in ways unimaginable. I will not look at the reflection in the mirrors. I will not gaze through
those unseeing eyes that so happily deceived me. I will not talk with this ill-fit mouth that has so easily
devoted itself to shame. I will only write. And think. My mind is untainted by the black blood that spills
from my fingers. Painting the windows until no sun shines through and no matter how many floods are
sent to repair me they will not show what I am. To you I may look like me. But inside, inside is where
the darkness hides. And the monsters tend to come out at night. They stain my hands black with the
blood they pour out onto the white blank page in front of me, staining the paper with use-less words
that no one will ever see.
Copyright © Samantha Clark | Year Posted 2011
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