The handheld time capsule which
I grasped ever so tightly
greatly captivated me
My train of memory couldn’t
replenish the tracks that lie
Within the depths of these
pages with tales of huge hurdles
and major dramas
of an elementary student
Oh how did one survive getting everything handed to them?
As I opened up the door to the past,
Which was hued with pink
and complemented with glitter
I wrinkled my face in disgust
Reading through the theatrical
pages, I bursted out into laughter for
only such exaggerated scenes exist in
Was this really me who
wrote such deranged layouts of a day
and supposedly being madly in love
at age 7
And tell me, who on earth likes the color pink?
I look down at this person, familiar yet unrecognizable
in comparison to myself.
That six year old mentality has indeed faded,
But I mustn't deny that there are still
traces of that glitter.
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