As I browse through pictures,
I turn so jealous, so discouraged at what my peers do.
I haven't been handed,
a thing in my past, while others just coast on through.
And here I am, grasping,
my early years yet - already a figment of peoples' past.
But a word for my father,
who has taken things harder. I know this is nothing but me.
Shake my head, blink,
squint; dig fingers in, buried - until this soreness is rid.
And here is the thesis:
the reason I write. It feels like steering into a skid.
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