soccer mom
By passwerdz
we were at a soccer game yesterdaylittle boys racing in the chilly airunafraid, andtrying to stay unawarelaughing and jokingexchanging words of prideneighbors, togetherno fear insidewishing to beexempt from the worldfrom the terror and sadnessthe hate and the sorrowtoday was their day,there is always tommorrowtiny feet pounding the hard packed groundgave rise to a newer, different soundbehind us in the treesthe sound of enginesand our hearts freeze'is that an airplane?'we hear the whispersold men, grampies,'could it be?'while the children play onoblivious, happilyeyes avoid eyesas we all turn to seewhat this great sound isin our town, in our treesscreaming engine, whirling bladestoo close to usand this life we have madewe are angry becausewe all have that fearthis time it seemed it was coming too nearour world, our children,our very way of lifewe tried not to panicbut it was in all our eyeswe are proud, unbendedquick on the watchready to see, but unable to talkwhere before we might point the planes out to babiesnow we find ourselves thinking 'maybe'and afraid, but yet notof terror rained downon our lives, in our worldon our own little town.I had stopped writing ANYTHING for so long, afraid what I write is too stupid, too rhyming, too teenaged. I am learning to let myself be me now, need constructive criticism, hope, friendship, and also some connection to the world. The WTC has shaken me, and I want to be as human as I can while I can. Feel free to criticize, but be gentle, this is my first time. Written October 14th, 2001 © on Oct 14 2001 09:19 AM PST 18 • 0 • 9
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"we were at a soccer game yesterdaylittle boys racing in the chilly airunafraid, andtrying to stay unawarelaughing and jokingexchanging words of prideneighbors, togetherno fear insidewishing to beexempt from the worldfrom the terror and sadnessthe hate and the sorrowtoday was their day,there is always tommorrowtiny feet pounding the hard packed groundgave rise to a newer, different soundbehind us in the treesthe sound of enginesand our hearts freeze'is that an airplane?'we hear the whispersold men, grampies,'could it be?'while the children play onoblivious, happilyeyes avoid eyesas we all turn to seewhat this great sound isin our town, in our treesscreaming engine, whirling bladestoo close to usand this life we have madewe are angry becausewe all have that fearthis time it seemed it was coming too nearour world, our children,our very way of lifewe tried not to panicbut it was in all our eyeswe are proud, unbendedquick on the watchready to see, but unable to talkwhere before we might point the planes out to babiesnow we find ourselves thinking 'maybe'and afraid, but yet notof terror rained downon our lives, in our worldon our own little town.I had stopped writing ANYTHING for so long, afraid what I write is too stupid, too rhyming, too teenaged. I am learning to let myself be me now, need constructive criticism, hope, friendship, and also some connection to the world. The WTC has shaken me, and I want to be as human as I can while I can. Feel free to criticize, but be gentle, this is my first time...."