Being eleven means being four,
Three, eight, ten and many more.
While growing up you keep your past,
Trying to make the years last.
Opening your eyes to a new age,
Continues the story of your life on a new page.
Stupid things said with or without a pen,
Take you back to when you were ten.
Running scared of a bee hive,
Right into mama’s arms like when you were five.
It might be months before 11 you feel,
So when you try to talk you can’t even squeal.
The red sweater doesn’t belong to me,
Mrs. Price why can’t you see!
It hangs off my desk like a waterfall,
Can’t wait ‘til I leave it in the hall!
Since I have to put it on I sigh,
Everything I’ve held in pours out my eye.
Everybody watches as I shake,
Then the bell rings, its time for a break.
Sylvia yells, “The sweater is mine!”
When I hand it to her Price acts like everything’s fine.
Candles and presents I will receive soon.