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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() I stood in that black box Watching as the girl’s fingers Flew like birds in a flock On her violin. Like they didn’t want to linger. Her mother came in,
Begging her to go faster So one day she‘d be concertmaster And she started again. It was only a scale, Her fingers went up and down And mine, I knew they would fail. I became worried And the girl’s tempo turned hurried For his mother screamed and cried. Comments are closed.
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October 2023
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