"For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends."
— Shel Silverstein
Dedicated to children everywhere...
I am on a mission to exterminate pride because my teacher challenged me to. She said that I couldn’t; I promised I would, and that’s exactly what I planned to do.
And so I walked with my chest through the tedious school hall, determination plastered on my face.
Until a sharp elbow hit me On the blade of my shoulder and I turned around to see Grace. She scowled and groaned “Who do you think you are?’ So I raised my head slightly and said I’m a dangerous assassin; an undercover spy Matter of fact, I think I’ll have you dead.
And then I walked off victorious and mighty. What a fool that Grace must be to think she could even come close to becoming as pretty or smart as me.
And then the people cheered and hollered my name and threw rose petals at my feet But my walk was still measured and slow And- Oh, what’s that you ask? Right, pride. Wait, what does that mean again?
(F = Gm1m2/r2) 0 = Everything
Zero Gravity Zone, the ad read. It consumed me slowly, pushing me out of reality where I sat criss cross applesauce on my Dora the Explorer blanket; my bottom sinking into the earth.
I wanted to fly because flying is fun;
not because I anticipated the future. The pressure on my head and shoulders. Earth’s cynical pull to it’s fiery core. The failed attempts of 7.8 billion flyers.
I wanted to fly because flying would make Tag, like, so much cooler;
not because I desired to achieve the impossible. Snap the chain forever. Hop into a rocket, zoom off into space, and leave my kind behind.
I wanted to fly because flying meant nothing.
But, now, I never want to because flying is everything.
Only the Falsely Wise Speak in Ciphers
Children is vital but one day Children will bleed out she’ll scrape her knee playing hopscotch on the blacktop hoping for a band aid maybe a hug only to be left with piercing words ringing in her ears
Children will sit there whole but helpless cradling his body in prayers of mercy looking up at me with unknowing eyes and I’ll turn my back and say “Children, it’s time to grow up.”
Children is not mine to disrupt but I do wielding and warping his mind desperately trying to rid Children of his childness
Children does not speak in ciphers that I have to decode Children speaks through megaphones on top of every landmark reciting my resolutions defenselessly awaiting my open fire
Children is unaware of her value and so am I unaware of her cement between our tectonic plates