When I was a child,
I used to have so much fun
swinging on the metal swing sets.
I would spin, jump,
run between them.
And every now and then,
the chains would pinch me,
leaving behind a mark
orange from the rust.I haven't had one of those marks
in years.
I wonder when the last time
was.
I didn't know it would be the last time
then,
or I must not have
cared.When did I stop swinging on those swings
because they hurt me?
When did I become more afraid of the pain
than I was excited for the fun?
I've always felt old,
but when did I finally stop being a child?
YOU ARE READING
Foreign Heart - A Poetry Collection
PoetryEmotions continue to perplex me, and this is me simply trying my hardest to understand where they come from and what they mean.