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| This is not me; may as well be For my wish is the same Do not read to the end of Longfellow's pen Be happy and free and loud as can be With no worries of repercussion |
There was a little girl,
And she had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was very, very good,
And when she was bad she was horrid
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)
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She sat in her bed screaming in her head man oh man this can be dreadful. The world she once knew no longer resembles the view she once so meticulously treasured. A sweet aging dog wonders what has gone wrong will we ever get better?
The stories she is told by strangers unmoored by her vacant displeasure. Do you fail to comprehend the depths of my dread and struggle to keep it together? So forgive me but please stop telling me your displease with nonsense and trivial matters.
Oh to be just a mere twenty-three; oblivious and free of the future endeavor. I try as I might to be sugar and spice but some days the weight takes all my strength and my patience is no longer tethered. The map I had drawn for a path til my dawn is unrecognizable and no longer of matter.
I once was a girl who had many many curls yet the one that remains is quite horrid. I try as I might to tackle and fight but this curl keeps falling hard on my forehead. I can still feel that little girl dancing a twirl on the green green grass of summer. I beg her not to go, I miss her so has she disappeared forever? No. She is there, that is for sure, so be brave don't deter; tomorrow she may be the one to save you.
