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I Was Raised MAG
I was raised in an apartment,
tattered from our humble family.
I was raised with the smell of petrichor—
for it drapes heavy on our cul-de-sac.
I was raised with the farm tractors outside,
working away the day.
When I was raised, I saw shadows
hover over my family as the sun settled down.
When I was raised, I saw the struggles of deciding paths—
for no path would remain untouched.
When I was raised, I learned the tough way
because without error it seemed too effortless.
What I learned is, childhood won’t last for life
it sheds like trees in autumn.
What I learned is, I dread the shadows from long ago—
for they could fall upon myself.
What I learned is, that to have strength
I must remember how I was raised.
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