"sandbox" poems
Oh, how I always wanted to live in an 8-bit world
Side-scrolling action
Duck hunts galore
As much currency as a first-world country
It’s hard not to love it
From Pokémon to Kid Icarus
The nostalgia nearly takes my breath away
I won’t let problems stack up like Tetris
I’m not being chased by ghosts crying,
“Wacka, wacka, wacka, wacka, wacka”
This isn’t a video game, it’s real life
When you die you don’t respawn like nothing ever happened
No, this is it. One life.
I’m placing blocks in Minecraft
Pwning n00bz in Call of Duty
Gaining headshots on Grunts like Master Chief
Gathering rings in Sonic the Hedgehog
Sneaking around like Ezio Auditore da Firenze
And delivering newspapers like Paperboy
While escaping the mysterious Slenderman
I’m living in this virtual world without danger
I don’t want to make it on these streets like Frogger
I don’t have big shoes to fill like the plumber or the blue blur
This ain’t no sandbox or first-person shooter, it’s reality
So, live it to the fullest, don’t rage quit
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC
Pushed in the sandbox,
head in the clouds.
They call you names,
so you scream out loud.
You are brave,
and proud,
cheetah child.
Holding you down,
pinned to the ground,
but still so alive
with that clingy smile.
You are sweet,
and strong,
cheetah child.
Warming the frozen,
hearing the silent,
Never getting caught,
You are so cunning,
and wild,
cheetah child.
Running so fast,
too fast to catch,
a smile to all passed.
You are unstoppable,
lighting up,
and so so fast.
wild,
wild,
cheetah child.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
Even as a child
I despised succumbing to the stereotype
That all girls like the color pink.
The first of my favorite colors was red
Bright red,
Like the first drop of blood dribbling from a small wound.
Then I remember fancying the color yellow,
But not a bright yellow
More of a laid-back, sandbox yellow.
Soon after I grew fond of the color blue.
Not a dark blue though,
Light blue, sky color.
The color of his eyes.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
April 5th 1994- Kurt Cobain dies
April 6th 1994- The President of Rwanda Dies
April 7th 1994- Kurt Cobain's body is found
April 7th 1994- A genocide begins.
Neighbors take arms against neighbors
People he once shared a sandbox with now hold a machete to his neck
Heads roll- literally
Babies cry out to their mothers who lie there choking on their own blood
Girls who 2 days ago were playing house with their dolls, now take care of their whole family
Screams of pain from girls who's innocence is taken from the man who used
to bounce them on his knee.
Gathered in the place where God is supposed to be
Hundreds are murdered ruthlessly.
Guns not pointed at their heads
But clubs that smash them in.
Achilles' heels slashed
These men drink and feast and sleep
Over the screams of their victims
Babies born 9 months after these men took something that was not theirs to
take
A physical representation of all that is evil and hatred and pain
She tries to love them anyway
But she sees him in them
He has daddy's eye
She has her fathers nose
She sees them in the way he looks at her when he's hungry
As if she is just there to quench that thirst with her body.
The whole word is split in 2
Nobody is Rwandan anymore
You are Hutu or Tutsi
Short or tall
Human or vermin.
The dead among the living
Sometimes I can't tell which is which
Until I see it
That sparkle of hope in that one man's eye
Because the human spirit will never die.
The father of his best friend tortured and murdered his mother on their
front lawn.
Orphaned and afraid,
He cannot stop
He cannot slow down
He cannot give up
Because ***** Kurt Cobain
he has to tell the story of what really happened that day
Rwanda April 7th 1994
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
island summer heat
big backyards
shared by three families
with rambunctious kids
sundresses, sandals, swim trunks
a big mango tree and
a merry-go-round with red chipped paint
geckos and mud baths
"boy's got cooties!"
mid-west plains' dry, summer heat
Mr. Sun is our lamp well past 9:00pm
Dow St., a giant hill covered
in uniform houses, filled with the uniformed sacrificial
spinning wheels, acre-wide hide and seek
nintendo and donkey kong, fireflies in jars
front yard mulberry trees
pippy longstocking "lets' go into this 'cave' of vines"
poison-ivy
southern peninsula, humid, summer heat
above ground pools and trampolines
a red brick house; the first home
the first CD collection, Filipino food
THE PARK,
the sandbox lid drowning in the bayou
sleeping in guest rooms, sleepovers a sign of status
pelicans, ducks, fishing,
sleeping in the boat; camping on the beach
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
Sandbox giggles and seesaw chuckles
echo around the park.
Little ones pitter patter on tarmac and grass,
oblivious to their age.
All they know is the sun is shining
and they're going to feel like this forever.
Rubber throwing and hushed whispers
echo around the classroom.
Schoolkids adding and subtracting,
oblivious to their age.
All they know is that they hate math
and they're going to be an astronaut when they grow.
Cheesy pop songs and girly giggles
echo around a bedroom.
She's curling her friend's hair and smiling,
oblivious to her age.
All she knows is that Jake is a cutie
and she's going to marry him when she's 21.
Birthday wishes and _lots of love!_
echo around the dinner table.
He's having his first beer as an 18-year-old and loving it,
oblivious to his age.
All he knows is that he's going out tonight
and staying up till dawn.
Baby rattles and first words
echo around the house.
The baby is mumbling its first word,
oblivious to the meaning behind it.
All it knows is that its mummy is warm
and it's daddy smells nice.
Memories of sandboxes and summer nights
echo around their heads.
They're laying in a bed in a sanitary place,
oblivious to the current situation.
All they know is that their time is up,
but they had such fun whilst it lasted.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 8:46 PM UTC
Justin Bieber is no big deal
I’m not even sure he is real.
He started out as pretty decent
Have you seen anything recent?
He looks like a kid who is trying
To join the gang but is only crying;
Sitting on the sidelines sniffling.
Dressed up in gang stuff and everything.
Poor baby Justin, as rich as a king
Isn’t quite satisfied owning everything
Has to cover up his body with tattoos
Like all the real-life gang members do.
Wears a hat too big for him all sideways
Plays in the sandbox where big kids play.
Wants to look all gangster and rough
But looking like a lesbian makes it tough.
Poor Baby Biebs with his millions of fans
Three pairs of underwear and baggy pants
Grinning like he’s bashful, we know he’s not.
Far too often he has proved himself a snot.
Some of us were worried when he was a kid.
We worried nobody was careful of what he did.
So Baby Justin Bieber is a bit of a wreck
Sort of like the words crawling up his neck.
Justin Bieber makes the young girls scream.
They don’t care he’s not the angel he seems.
If only he would misbehave with them, they think.
They’d let him act the fool, smoke and stink.
Because, after all, when you’re a teen-aged star
It doesn’t really matter just how fake you are.
The thing is be to be fashionable the youthful way
And let them get a glimpse of you every day.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
I don’t want to be
the fat kid on the seesaw
anymore
The let down
the crash into
the dirt
I want to build castles
in the sandbox
Maybe
hang precariously
inverted
Or perhaps slide
perpetually
Or swing so high
I might go upside down
then just
let go into a freefall
jump
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
Look what the cat done drug in
Slow on down... darlin’!
Hol’ yo horses!
Don’t go get’n a conniption fit
Or get’n your knickers in a knot!
Hush up
Or’n I’m a goin **** a knot in yo tail!
I’m busy as a one legged cat in a sandbox,
but I’m fixin tell what we got here at JuJu’s
Now lookie here...
we got
crawfish mild spicy
crawfish medium spicy
crawfish spicy spicy
we got
crawfish with corn
crawfish with sausage
crawfish with potatoes
we got
crawfish with red sauce
crawfish with pink sauce
crawfish with melted butter
If y’all a bit dry...
we got
crawfish with canned soda
crawfish with bottled water
crawfish with beer
crawfish with BYOB
Or we gots
jus’ crawfish
Go on an pick how yo’ want yo’ crawfish spiced, then go on an decide what yo’ wanna add! I reckon we gots dang near 362,888 ways to eat these here mudbugs
You might could get
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage
spicy spicy crawfish with corn
spicy spicy crawfish with potatoes
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage and corn
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage and potatoes
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage, corn and potatoes
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage and beer
spicy spicy crawfish with corn and beer
spicy spicy crawfish with potatoes and beer
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage, corn, potatoes
and beer
I could go on...
till I’m plum tuckered out... but...
Got it? You good??
You want mushrooms
Well, I’ll be
Don’t go axin... what we ain’t got
No siree bob, no mushrooms
We also ain’t got tea, sweet or unsweet
But sweet’s the only way to have tea sweetie
If you want soda, you can get
Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, Dr Pepper
Diet Dr Pepper, Hawaiian Punch, Brisk Tea
Or Root Beer
We also got shrimp... just boiled
We also got gloves... half a dollar
Well, I’m worn slap out!
Watcha have a hankerin for?
Take your own sweet time!
Sit a spell
You’ll soon be full as a tick on a big dog!
Happy as a dead pig in sunshine!
You’ll wanna slap yer mama!
Can’t decide hon?
I do declare!
Aren’t you precious?
(now... he startin get on my last nerve)
Still...can’t make up your mind?
Well... I can’t do it fer ya!
(bout aggravatin as a rock)
You picky?
(Lawd have mercy!)
Bless your heart!
© 2019 Jim Davis
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 11:41 PM UTC
I’m thinking of the faded checkered pattern that has been
smoothed away by time on the dark cloth seats of a Nissan Pathfinder
driving down Ryan Road on a hot day in June.
My mother, in the front seat, singing along to a Spice Girls cassette.
I’m thinking: red, plastic, crab-shaped sandbox and
McDonald’s Happy Meal toys.
I’m thinking: light princess pink, seafoam green, and robin’s egg blue.
I’m thinking of a framed cheetah cross stitch, hanging on the wall of what
used to be our bedroom at my grandparent’s house.
I’m thinking: Barbie doll houses and Hot Wheels and a cul-de-sac at
the end of the street.
The sweet smell of cigar smoke. The ice cold splash of the garden hose. The pop of a bubble. The sting of soap in the eye. Dreams by The Cranberries. As Long as You Love Me by The Backstreet Boys. A HelloKitty boombox slowly spitting out vapor when the deck builders hit a power line while digging. The deer in the backyard looking for corn. The faded wood of a playset that was never really played on.
My father: sitting alone on a splintered bench by the firepit at the edge of the woods, empty beer cans at his feet, chain smoking cigarettes, and humming along to a song that is stuck—forever stuck—on the tip of my tongue.
I do not know if this happened. I cannot ask him.
(I’m not sure if I would want to ask him.)
But I can make an educated inference that that line of
fiction is really nonfiction.
A memory that feels like a phantom limb.
Sounds like the sharp crinkle of static.
Covered in a gossamer, dreamlike haze.
There is a distinct otherness to this memory, to who
I think I was before the trauma.
We are two different people. A yin and a yang. A day and a night.
The hermit crab is soft beneath its hard shell.
The asbestos is not apparent within the insulation.
You cannot see the lead in the paint.
The mold inside the fruit.
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 2:46 AM UTC
I paint a picture non obscure, antique
A snapshot heart sees
Both love and clay
Up there’s a castle
And maiden fair
Who plays about a sandbox
And gold streaming through the air
Hearts hug
And hands care
Soft voice as light
Caresses within the obscure
Of darkness and pain
Destroying all but which is love pure
Laid upon my feet is too once clay and...
Waves are crashing
Upon the infinite sandcastles
By the little sea
And fair maiden
Who lets it be
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 9:31 PM UTC
as my sister
inspects
her *******
in the white
piece of paper
we both
refer to
as the one
and only
ghost
mirror
I fry
god’s egg
in the plastic
shovel
I took
from a sandbox
shaped
like a coffin
and shiver
like the psychic
who with
the controllable
sobbing
of her hands
gave our seizures
to animals
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
I was once told to edit the world. I grabbed my colored pencils, my childish ideals thinking I could simply, go over the imperfections left by my predecessors. Soon I would come to realize, life is no etchy-sketch. I could shake the world, twist, mold into anything I wanted. It’s still ****** up. I’m still trying to color the problems. I shade the unwanted, masking it over so I can pretend it’s gone. My day dreams continue further as I sketched over past memories, just want to edit the world. But, colored pencils become daggers when in the right hands. I’ve leaped into this idea with no plan, Standard american wisdom. Act first, question later. my first action should have been to ask, is the world a canvas? Maybe it’s a kindergarden sandbox, 5 year old fists and 6 year olds toes smash and pound through. Maybe it’s a thunderstorm because, I was told life isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. All I’ve seen is dark clouds and lighting. Maybe the world is me. Poetic angst without fail, too much energy to use, to many words spoken at a rapid pace. Maybe the world is you, you, or you. It’s not just its own story, it’s a combination of auto-biographies still being written. Maybe... Just maybe, we are all editors. The world is constantly being edited, no single person should aim to do it themselves. Our world is force, a group, a team, a family taking the pens from our mothers and fathers, writing our chapters into the guide on how to edit. Sooner rather than later, we’ll pass our pens down to those who will write the chapters we never get to see. Hopefully, 5 year old fists and 6 year old toes become 20 year old champions and 30 year old heroes. We can share our stories, filled with the people we’ll never forget, and the nights, we can’t seem to remember. In the end, editing the world will never finished, it can be forgotten. We hope shedding sun rays on a rainy day, might convince our successors to never forget. Sadly, We can only hope they wish to edit.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 7:42 PM UTC
Once upon a time there was a girl.
In the summer she'd hold her breath underwater in the three foot pool. 47 seconds.
In the fall she'd look at the trees from the car window and wonder why she didn't change color with them.
In the winter her boots would get stuck in the snow just like the cat and she'd laugh.
In the spring she'd make potions with leaves, seeds, and sandbox rain water.
Once upon a time the girl was a little bit older.
In the summer the pool would be too small, she'd be too tall.
In the fall she'd become enthralled with girls and wouldn't think of the leaves again.
In the winter she'd realize not all children were hit and hated at home.
In the spring she'd fill herself with alcoholic potions the leaves and rain water couldn't touch.
Once upon a time the girl aged even more.
In the summer she'd throw her last scrap of childhood to the big bad wolf. He gave her a token.
In the fall she'd change like the leaves, but then the magic would leave. She'd lose the token.
In the winter she'd fall in the gravel infested snow. She wouldn't laugh.
In the spring she'd try to end it all with a potion of sleep and cool metal. It wouldn't work.
Once upon a time it was right about now.
I'm changing like the leaves, stuck in the snow, taking too many "potions". The whole time I've been holding my breath. 571,501,629 seconds.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
my old stomping ground
a violent playground
where kids emulate birds
the pecking order
last one to the sandbox
goes to prison
blood, sweat and knuckle sprains
truimph, loss and growing pains
but i am not the sum of it
nor it the sum of me
i have lived other lives
so why do i identify with it so strongly
Mar 17, 2010
Mar 17, 2010 at 11:32 PM UTC
Add a little pressure
To the edges of my vision
And watch how I keep onto the sharp images even if they become awry
I've got a story in my heart and today I'm leaving for the weekend
Going on a roadtrip except it's in my head and I can't drive even though I could if I wanted to
And tomorrow I’ll be so socially and emotionally intelligent you’ll be so impressed
My mother will smile again
So slightly will her lips part and their edges face toward the sun
Face toward her son
A little boy with no place to choose
I’ll show you all
I’m not alone and I’m not afraid to lose
I’m a dog and a bandit
I miss you in the sandbox
I miss the bucket you would bring because I never had my own
But also
I miss you
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
I once sold a hair straightener to a woman going through keemo
I once sold a a weight loss supplement to a girl struggling with anoerexia.
I once sold female libido enhancers to a forty year old man.
Sold a car to a Parapalegic
Sold a telephone to a deff woman.
I once sold a child an imaginary friend.
And a Vaccuum for their sandbox.
I once sold a soul to a telemarketing company.
They paid me in biweekly installments.
And they got a hell of a deal.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
Back in 2003 I found a piece of me
buried, like a shard of pottery, in the sandbox.
A Hot Wheel’s car, little rusted with one tire missing
that I used to shove in the little zippered flap
of my Powerpuff Girls backpack. Older, fifteen,
I carved another piece of me out and pasted it
to a vanilla letter, sliding the envelope through the slits
in his locker door, and I lost it. I’m not even sure he read it.
Nineteen, faded and little stolen, I threw another piece of me
into my mother’s grave. Plush petals, rosary beads, crystal
liquid drops infused with microscopic memories. I cut
myself in slivers and jammed uneven edges together
just to gusto the void, compact the space, walk solid.
And now, twenty-three, I press my face against a mirror
and slide my arms into a flannel, grandpa, hammy-down.
You took the last piece. You crawled into my guard, tore the lining
and spit your black blood on the blank memoirs I had hanging
next to the split.
Take me, now, if that’s how it’s gunna be. You wanna live
with the dust bunnies in my baggage? Feed off my insecurities,
my staggered breath, or my mercury dreams? I don’t want to be saved.
I’ve made my own maze with only one way out, so you’re trapped
in the Miss Havisham model I’ve made, rotten cake. Build yourself
a new girl from my discards, suckle the marrow from my bones,
and blow, like a glass ornament, a pretty replica of who I am.
Isn’t that what you wanted? Wasn’t that part of the chase?
The sweet idea that you could pull some perfect women out of the rubble?
I bet that’d be nice to show off, you ******* But here’s the catch,
I know I’m broken. You don’t need to remind me. So take
the smiles I’ve learned to draw on my lips for two cents,
and give up the **** fight I know you won’t win.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
The moment you graced my presence, my mind switched to 16-bit mode.
You was a classic type of adventure, one evolution rarely shows.
All these side quest chicks you made me put on pause soon to be ended.
Cause playing sandbox style wasn't the type of image you've given.
Hips more curved than a sonic loop makin me want to do a quick run thru.
But your eyes told no lies they made me more than see.
That your quest was bigger than any final fantasy
So I'm taking my time to learn this pattern
To figure out how to beat your robot masters
Stage 1 your name Stage 2 your number skip to stage 6 make sure I'm the thoughts in your slumber
My mind's so focused my inputs gotta be right
One wrong move and I lose my last life tonight
No save points just passwords you say I gotta learn your codes
Wouldn't dream of cheating ya besides I don't know what buttons to hold.
Well **** baby you say that I made it to the end?
What's that? To see the true ending I gotta... Beat it.... Again?
But there's somethin about you that just seems worth the hassle.
Cause you got me jumping like mario racing to bowser's castle.
You're as cunning as zelda, as sweet as peach
As scary as you want when you feel your inner sheik.
You got a smile more connected than the perfect tetris
An old school star that's leavin me feelin rather hectic.
Cause you see it's so easy playing for the highscore
But when ya add a lil passion you don't get as easily bored
So I see this challenge as straight 2D
No circular levels just a series of puzzles between you and me
Let's make this purely one on one a street fighter thing.
No crossover tag action hyper fighting fling
See you got it all twisted just check my guide book
A good portion of character data is written on your look
Quick call doctor mario I think I got the flu
I need help tryin to convey these abstract thoughts to you
See you're like 16-bit beginnings hand drawn and expertly crafted
drawn so precisely each movement in action
So I'm focused on this quest like them double dragon twins
Ready for whatever final boss you got at the end
It makes everything worthwhile when I see your beauty on the go
And I drop my ps3 world to switch to my 16-bit mode
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
eyes bloodshot and burning red
like two swollen bags full of
acid tears staining my cheeks with
hot red blotches of fiery
guilt clouding my head like dense
fog settling into the room
between us is a thousand miles.
my eyes feel like bee-stings,
my heart a stone.
with my dead-tree body, withering and
wilting, i lay my heavy head and plead
for sleep to carry me away.
you already dozed off hours ago
like a sleeping child worn out
from throwing his toys 'round the sandbox.
your side of the bed is warm, soft and dry,
while the cold rain still pours over mine.
i guess tonight i'm sleeping in a storm.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 5:30 AM UTC
An Angel and a Demon, above the world, filled with chaos and destruction. Debating over saving humanity or letting it fall into devastation.....
*This world is worth saving,
You see the good ones down there,
Praying and helping?
Good beats evil, every time.
Letting things fall apart would be a crime.*
**My angelic friend, you're too high in the sky,
Grace us; come down from that ivory perch.
It won't take much to see through the lies,
Not much at all, to see what they're worth.**
*Dear demonic soul, don't you know?
Their worth is not in question.
Their value is more than our weight in gold,
Have some more appreciation!*
**Right--between war, the crucifixion and ****
These humans are just such lovely things.
They aren't filled with a single ounce of hate,
Oh, come now! See the atrocities they bring!**
*The things you say may be true,
But there's so much good down there.
Remember Noah and the Renaissance?
The missionaries and volunteers, they still care!*
**Oh, goodness! Yes, how could I forget?
********* Priests with their souls to sell?
Rich lead the depraved farther into debt?
Your precious world is going straight to Hell!**
*No, you monster! How dare you talk like that!
These are human beings, not toy things.
They'll prove you wrong, peace is coming.
Go tell your puppet master to cut his strings!*
**Don't PREACH to me of puppetry, fairy!
Whatever happened to your God's free will?
Compared to Earth, Hell isn't that scary!
**** rat race! *** money, egos, and thrills!**
*I'll preach what I have to, to save these humans souls,
Spineless creature.. You're wrong on so many levels!
I can't wait to dance with glee, while you unravel,
Dragging your worthless shell back home to the Devil!*
**I guess the horrors before you aren't enough,
You must want your sandbox to turn to doom.
These aren't falsehoods--this isn't a bluff,
Say what you will; Hell's running out of room!**
.... And there Angel and Demon bickered, for what seemed an eternity. Purity prospered in parts, where death and deprivation brought others into declension. At odds and ends, they both returned home, leaving Earth to fend for its own.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
You screamed at me
As the tears slowly
Streamed from your eyes
And you never told me why
All you told me is
Don't be like me baby boy
Grow up and be smart
So your kids won't steal toys
A walking habit
A flying contradiction
You left me dying
When you were in prison
A child of the night
Soul flooding with pain
Overflowing into fights
Eyes red from the strain
Child born from the sandbox
Spirit living parallel to muck
Down the slide he was caught
He was mentally thunderstruck
Then the facade began to rust
I attempted to resist the talk
A broken necklace like our trust
You left me in the pine box
Buried alive
Barely alive
Dirt in my nails
As I climb
Buried alive
Barely alive
Dirt in my nails
As I climb
What did a child mean to you
You told me don't be afraid
But I was too used to you
Then you were taken away
Old playgrounds left in your wake
Stressed out generational swings
Much like the mood we would play
Then see what the enemy brings
Kites down with bullet holes
Too hungry with no cereal
Serial killers fill the room
Face to face with true doom
Sleeping every night
Dreaming about you
Played football all the time
Played and lived for you
You shook your head at me
Wondering how I turned out this way
All you remember is feeding me
Happy Meals, lies, and games
Disappointment you said you feel
You gave me wounds that wont heal
Sword at my throat, once a shield
Then I was thrown into the fields
My eyes are older and colder
6 year old left to the slaughter
The old you, well I adore her
You sold her off then I bought her
As a child soldier, on my knees
Begging at the steps of the city
Grabbed my gun then squeezed
If anyone dared show any pity
The priest touched me and never loved me
Used the book as an excuse to continue the abuse
Left bruises all over me, left me weak and ******
Then I went back to my cousins room and found my tools
Tools to find a new way
Foster homes not the way
Never found a way to pray
Today was lived yesterday
Broke the latch on my casket
Master would never have it
My old rose, oh I grabbed it
Threw it down then laughed at it
I turned out just like you
No I turned out much worse
I don't see a thing in you
Take it for what it's worth
The playground is closed
It went with you long ago
My heart broke with my soul
Then was rebuilt by the crows
Followed you wherever you would go
If only you would have come to know
The ways in which I'd come to grow
Before the playground closed
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC