Year One: Planted.
I have fallen in love with so many people during this time; heard their stories and watched them cry. Where do they go after the rain has dried? Planted at the same time; progressing at different rates.
most times, i believe that i feel harder than others.
Collecting moments, ranging in size, storing them in a side bag to spread out onto the floor. A naïve Phil once thought that this would be different from high school. Arriving here broken, excepting to be healed by new faces and smiles. He thought that this place would be where he met people that would be around for-ever. He came here.
Year Two: Open Wounds.
Still true, yet the tide nears and a shift is forming. I felt the drift a year ago before it came ashore.
I felt the drift many moons before that.
The late nights staying up in our cubed prisons are no longer. The fresh feeling of being out late with personalities has rotted to routine. Embracing a late night now feels normal.
Year Three: Brittle Bark/Fallen Branches.
should i cry now or later. should i think about what is lost now or later.
“Gai-Brel” has grown and learned. Sprouted from boy to man.
He loves those that he has encountered, but despises them for leaving.
square one. fresh page. no control over the speed in which life is read.
are those smiles on instagram genuine… or do you feel the same?
Year Four:
Accepting a harsh reality that everything continues when you leave and nothing ceases when you die. Doraella will be 41 on the 15th. So much that she has not seen in her physical form.
I know she would have went all out. Squeeze her last dollar to buy me a graduation present.
hug me with your arms, sniffle in my ear, rock me side to side.
i just wish we had the chance to do that one more time.
i wish you were able to see where your seed has
i hope you see this
i hope you see what’s next
your first baby boy to graduate.
by. Philip G. Steverson