The Little Yellow Doll House

I am from the little yellow doll house,

on market street, 

with the crippled swing set

in the backyard,

rusted with the tears of my youth.

 

I am from nights spent at my 

grandparents,

listening to bedtime stories,

that take a yellow highlighter to younger and easier times, 

before they turn out the light.

 

I am from pointless arguments,

long nights spent talking

about everything under the sun.

Eleven years of a friendship

that should have lasted a

lifetime.

 

But most of all,

 

I am from an old Oak tree.

A green leaf, full of life, just waiting for 

her time to entertain and please the world

with her red, yellow, and orange

hues.

This poem is about: 
Me

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