Someone make me afraid of what I've become!
A 'poem' about childhood I had to write for Lit. class. I used some old journal entries for it. Awful it is:
It just might be one of those Friday feeling days says I
As I look to my hugging tree for a hug.
I always had one when the world seemed free.
I might just be a hippy that doesn't require tofu and lives in a tie-dyed world of psychedelic acid trips without the acid trips. I might just run off with the hippies and feel alive.
Yes, these are the times I feel alive, that feeling I would say is hippyish, is more reminiscent of childhood than any other feeling.
(And if you think childhood has nothing to do with being a hippy, then apparently you’ve never met a real one)
And childhood was alive.
I just didn't realize it at the time.
Such a precocious child I was, sitting on the sewer eating a Popsicle and taking it all in with a sense of wonder, that I would later bitterly call life-what a female dog.
How wrong I am!
Then I believed I could touch the stars and soar above the houses and off into the distance, maybe to the neighborhood pool or in the creek looking for some sort of adventure where I could surely come back covered in mud, or maybe just next door at the neighbor’s house where I could plant stink bombs in his car.
I’d fly off to the future and find myself as a teacher, teaching a class where everyone was named Emily and they all needed me desperately to discipline them as my parents had done for me.
Sometimes I was a gypsy and sometimes I was a witch or my mother because I could be anything I wanted to be.
It required that I keep a bag of bay leaves and meat tenderizer under my bed and prance about in my mother’s high heels and layers of necklaces.
Often a rousing game of POGs could cure a summer afternoon’s boredom or perhaps pulling Barbie doll heads off and filling them with ketchup.
Each morning for half an hour I was told what a special neighbor I was by a man that had an obvious case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Mr. Rogers.
And on the radio The Beatles told me all I needed was love.
And some nights when my invisible friend, Daisy, wasn’t there, or Peedie the pink teddy bear was in the laundry, I would wonder if a serial killer was under my bed or where I would go when I died.
These were the times spaghetti was ‘pasquetti’, book bag was ‘packpack’ and all adults were considered ‘dolts’.
Now that I am becoming a ‘dolt’, I’m losing my sense of wonder among all the ‘doltish’ things my life gets caught up in.
Someone remind me of what it feels like to be a child again, oh someone make me afraid of what I’ve become.
These days the only reminder of my childhood is that rare occasion I feel the need to run off with the hippies.But then, I am made up of youthful memories and monumental events that remind me where I come from and lead me to where I am going.
As I look to my hugging tree for a hug.
I always had one when the world seemed free.
I might just be a hippy that doesn't require tofu and lives in a tie-dyed world of psychedelic acid trips without the acid trips. I might just run off with the hippies and feel alive.
Yes, these are the times I feel alive, that feeling I would say is hippyish, is more reminiscent of childhood than any other feeling.
(And if you think childhood has nothing to do with being a hippy, then apparently you’ve never met a real one)
And childhood was alive.
I just didn't realize it at the time.
Such a precocious child I was, sitting on the sewer eating a Popsicle and taking it all in with a sense of wonder, that I would later bitterly call life-what a female dog.
How wrong I am!
Then I believed I could touch the stars and soar above the houses and off into the distance, maybe to the neighborhood pool or in the creek looking for some sort of adventure where I could surely come back covered in mud, or maybe just next door at the neighbor’s house where I could plant stink bombs in his car.
I’d fly off to the future and find myself as a teacher, teaching a class where everyone was named Emily and they all needed me desperately to discipline them as my parents had done for me.
Sometimes I was a gypsy and sometimes I was a witch or my mother because I could be anything I wanted to be.
It required that I keep a bag of bay leaves and meat tenderizer under my bed and prance about in my mother’s high heels and layers of necklaces.
Often a rousing game of POGs could cure a summer afternoon’s boredom or perhaps pulling Barbie doll heads off and filling them with ketchup.
Each morning for half an hour I was told what a special neighbor I was by a man that had an obvious case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Mr. Rogers.
And on the radio The Beatles told me all I needed was love.
And some nights when my invisible friend, Daisy, wasn’t there, or Peedie the pink teddy bear was in the laundry, I would wonder if a serial killer was under my bed or where I would go when I died.
These were the times spaghetti was ‘pasquetti’, book bag was ‘packpack’ and all adults were considered ‘dolts’.
Now that I am becoming a ‘dolt’, I’m losing my sense of wonder among all the ‘doltish’ things my life gets caught up in.
Someone remind me of what it feels like to be a child again, oh someone make me afraid of what I’ve become.
These days the only reminder of my childhood is that rare occasion I feel the need to run off with the hippies.But then, I am made up of youthful memories and monumental events that remind me where I come from and lead me to where I am going.
posted by Em at 1:27 AM
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