The colors of spring and winter

October 11th

Keen

The trait of being enthusiastic.

Some may say that all consuming obsessions, especially those with things deemed strange are pointless.

While I would never in any of my days say that what someone is passionate about is not something worth caring for, I say it in the mirror quite often.

I love to listen to others as they shine like Christmas lights speaking on what they love most, but I, as many, am a hypocrite.

I judge myself quite harshly on the things I love, I berate myself for the person I wish to hold hands with, and compare my first poems to those who have been writing endlessly since the beginning of them.

Telling myself it's not just silly but stupid to care about the dramas that are created to be seen on a glowing screen.

Reminding myself that day dreaming about boys I hope to one day share my life with is shameful and wrong.

Not only that but bothering myself for not being the next great thing on my first, second, or third try.

The truth of all this judgement is, I know nobody I care about holds me to the standards that I do, nobody who means anything to me glares at me quite like I do.

The truth runs wild, because I know that none of these thoughts mean anything to me, yet I let them dictate my choices like the book with all the answers.

So I remind myself that the things I care about are not worthless in any way, because I care about them, and that reason is just enough.

That the partner I hope to wake up with in the morning is nothing wrong, but also says just as much about my character as the color of my shoe laces.

Lastly, there is nothing wrong with being bad at what you love, it takes courage to fail, more courage than most things that come to mind.

Kid

A young person.

Kindergarten,

I made friends with a lovely girl named elizabeth,

I turned five maybe six which one I am not too sure,

Reading stories in my teacher's classroom.

First grade,

I made more friends whose names all i can't quite remember,

I had a teacher with long brown hair who told me to slow down while doing my work.

I cried over math tests I knew I would pass.

Second grade,

We peeled crayons for a gift for valentines day,

I had the sweetest most candy like teacher a child my age could dare to dream of,

I went to the library many days I'm sure,

I kissed a boy in the playground, but again it wasn't what I would now consider a kiss.

Third grade,

I hate to miss a line but there is not a memory of any sort that I can retrieve.

Fourth grade,

I had a lovely teacher named miss fillman,

Elizabeth said she had the perfect body,

I remember becoming aware of mine, not happy with what I had,