harsh words
and stinging comments
verbal blows meant
to cripple
i refuse to cry
in front of them
so wait until
the attack is done
then leave quietly
driving eighty miles an hour
to that old place
a playground long forgotten
the swings squeek
and the sandbox
is a garden of weeds
but the echoes of a childhood
long past
come from the ghost
of my younger self
i sit on a swing still working
watching my youth
dissapear
shadows grow longer
as a red orange
sun sets down
and everything is bathed
in a bronze mist
i know what i have to do now
i must make my own decisions
my own life
and i realize that life may be hard
from the choices i make
and i fear for the mistakes
that lie ahead
but its time
to walk forward
through the rusted playground gate
and let it close