Poetry By
Daniel Arenson
Published on: 9/8/2005
Youth
Do we remember ourselves? At fifteen, sitting in some basement, Painting and listening to Rush as outside holes burst in walls spreading so slowly like disease. The girls, somehow they always eluded us, as we smoked for the first time and prayed, pleaded, screamed for this to end. Please remember us, now these weary, confused adults. I still have those old cassettes and those old paintings and still I watch those holes spread.
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