2013 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 3

It’s not too late to catch up, but for those who are already on day three: Great job! After today’s poem, you’ll be a whole 10% through the month. We’re going to poem this month out!

For today’s prompt, write a “the last time I was here” poem. Imagine you’re returning to a spot (physical, emotional, psychological, etc.): Is it a good thing? Bad thing? What did you leave behind (if anything)? What’s there to welcome you back (again, if anything)?

Here’s my attempt at a “the last time I was here” poem:


The sign, stars, and strip were smaller
than I imagined. I found James Stewart

and the Beatles, hid my money
from people in costumes, tour buses. Not

that it’s the worst place on earth, but
if you don’t feel lonely here, where will you?


Publish your poetry! Click here to learn how.


Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and a published poet with three new poems in the latest issue of Otoliths, an online poetry publication out of Australia (click here to read the poems). He’s also the author of Solving the World’s Problems, which has a poem or three about lonely places not located in California. He’s married to the poet Tammy Foster Brewer, who helps him keep track of his five little poets (four boys and one princess). Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


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262 thoughts on “2013 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 3

  1. Rosemarie Keenan


    Look at her
    Or if it makes you uncomfortable
    Don’t look, I’ll tell you

    She’s almost fifty
    But maybe looks younger
    Usually, maybe
    Not today
    Not now
    Not at this particular moment

    Today, trying not to weep as she
    calls her doctor’s office while
    standing at the bus stop
    Lines of the monsters roaring by

    She’s barely hanging on
    If you’re looking, you can see it
    Eyes welling up
    Phone goes back in her pocket

    Watch as she gives up
    She’s almost fifty
    She has a good job
    She’s sobbing at the bus stop

    She doesn’t know what’s wrong
    Her heart keeps missing beats
    Then throwing in an extra to catch up

    The doctor says she’s fine
    No more tests to do
    It’s not serious

    So she’s sobbing at the bus stop
    And it’s not serious
    She’s almost fifty
    And it’s life catching up with her
    And she doesn’t want to die

  2. Mike Bayles

    The Road to the Park is Open

    Fallen branches cleared point to sky
    like angel wings. There’s a song in the air.
    A mother takes her daughter to the park
    for an afternoon treat. She swings takes
    to the skies while birds fly. She thinks
    she’s an angel, and her mother watches.
    The road less travelled leads to stories
    and imagination, a subtext of the news.

  3. Yolee

    The Last Time I Was Here in My Bedroom

    I thought about going downstairs
    to make coffee as morning began to brew.
    But not before I soaked in the glory of silence.

    The best part is when I awaken to it
    like a lover in the early days of marriage
    where answers have yet to pull
    business cards out of their pockets
    and into the cupped hands of questions,
    where communication has no need for
    sound to affirm pure truth.

    I drank my souped up caffeine. Slowly
    the second stage of silence dispersed
    like smoke. I climbed the stairs
    as the rumpled sound of
    commitments rolled out of bed.

    My boxer-pit was barking at the front door.

  4. bjholmes

    The last time I was here
    was not like the first time I was here.
    I am alone with my thoughts.

    The last time I was here
    alone with my thoughts
    gazing at the many years of growth
    that time could not control.

    The last time I was here
    my thoughts were of you,
    the glittery smmowy lights
    floating through my mind.

    The last time I was here
    you were far from me
    but not far from my heart
    you are always in my heart.

    The last time I was here
    I thought about that night
    we talked about our pasts
    the hurts and the tears.
    The last time I was here
    sitting on our bench
    remembering the promisies we made
    knowing that we are forever.

  5. Lori P

    Your House
    I lived three streets down from your house
    for almost two years
    after I moved out of your house
    and never once went down
    your street or looked at your house
    except today by accident
    I turned too soon and saw your house
    I thought it would eat me
    take me back to when I lived at your house
    but I felt nothing
    I almost didn’t recognize your house
    it couldn’t hurt me
    now that you’re gone from your house
    it’s just a house

  6. foodpoet

    Lotus Reflections – Scribe to Bro ther

    Today is the day of judgment, I wait for Maat’s decisions.
    The differences between us seem small
    Today I write for myself.
    I miss the long talks by the river of lotus and papyrus.
    I know now I was wrong to let she who walked between us
    To separate us in anger.
    I am content in my small village safe from past wrongs.
    If in judging today, you can see past


  7. hohlwein


    The last time I was here
    it was yesterday

    and I can’t recall it.

    Who was I then
    – waking, standing up stiffly,
    having some time to do some

    I did them, largely, by the time the sliver
    thin moon dipped into the Pacific.

    And today
    I have some time.
    There are things to do.
    There is a sense of having

    some time.
    How much – perhaps –
    was the question
    and today

    and tomorrow I – perhaps –
    will be here
    and this hour

    the light of the November morning
    will glow the white curtains beige as if
    from underneath

    The day will feel familiar, but also brand new,

    and I will glimpse but not grasp
    the imperative
    of either.

        1. hohlwein

          thanks so much.

          It’s always nice to feel someone might relate to a phrasing.
          I hope you’re having fun with this.
          I wish I had a tiny bit more time; I’m often rushing to catch up and knocking out three at at time.
          Better late than never, I suppose!

          Thanks for taking the time to read it!

  8. Julieann

    714 France Street

    Twelve years old, we moved away
    No longer welcome, useless to stay

    Four years of life, lived in two rooms
    Best years together, full of love’s bloom

    Mom and Dad and Uncle too
    Family and friends stayed a night or two

    Sickness and health, poverty or wealth
    Life snuck up, without much stealth

    We went back last year, and shed a tear
    The house was gone, as we feared

    The storm took it away, too fragile to stand
    We stood there morning, hand in hand

  9. shanezie

    The Magic Woods

    My last time here,
    trees still stood
    where they had watched us
    grow from gnomes to knights
    to teenagers.

    We danced on ropes,
    burnt fires at night
    and drank
    too much
    to youth.

    Once trees fell
    they became paths
    connecting villages
    to fortresses
    in an infinite forest.

    Nailed on boards
    made castle towers
    that we climbed
    to see over
    the kingdom.

    As we aged
    we outgrew enchantments,
    brought in friends
    with beer cans
    for weekly campfires.

    Then it sold
    to some new family
    to build their new home
    where we once wove
    our old spells.

    I still climb trees
    but these are gone,
    torn and seeded,
    replaced by horses,
    and I won’t return.

    Published on:

  10. Linda Hatton

    The Last Time I Was Stumped

    The last time I was here,
    resting on a stump, splintered
    by word overload, alphabet
    soup stewing in my brain,
    trying to contain misplaced
    energy, rope it, wrangle it,
    pull it back in until frayed ends
    meet-and-greet new beginnings
    at restless fingertips,
    keyboard, or unsharpened
    tongue. I wish I could say the last
    time I was here was the last
    time and words lived
    happily ever after, but last
    times always circle back around
    to first times, rolling
    like a stump bumping
    and jumping over earth’s
    word(l)y imperfections.


  11. BezBawni


    Our bridge has rusted,
    but I still remember the way the railings
    felt behind my back.
    I’d walked here wrapped in
    hopelessness and darkness, and my thin trenchcoat
    soaked by the rain.

    You’d followed, barefoot,
    running through the bushes, as you collapsed I
    saw your soles were cut,
    just as my soul was
    shredded by the tears I’d never shed and
    since then never have.

    You held my death note
    I’d lost in the alley, the note you later
    shredded in your hands,
    and when you told me
    we would die together, I held your hand and
    knew that life goes on.

    Our bridge has rusted,
    but we still remember last time that we were
    here we wanted death.
    Now when I look at
    you there’s nothing more I’ve ever wanted
    than for us to live.

  12. annell

    I was here the last time
    Or…the last time I was here
    Golden grasses dried in the field
    Trees stand bare
    The COLOR of autumn is gone
    Clouds bank against the mountains
    The sun shines through
    Broken gray and scattered blue
    Horses in the field
    Nibbling last bits of green

    End of autumn
    Signals winter is on the way

    And it was here
    The coyote died
    Dark night
    He appeared
    As if by magic
    The cruel wheels
    Stopped him in his tracks
    An ending in an instant
    We took a breath
    Began again
    But I can never pass here
    Without remembering him

    I look in the rear view mirror
    The highway is empty

    Down into the canyon
    New snow under the sagebrush
    Landscape ahead
    A painting
    The beginning of time
    Life is full
    Of beginnings and endings

    In the canyon
    There are trees
    Still with glorious color
    Yellow and orange
    Oh my….
    It takes my breath away
    All else is grayed
    The sky overcast
    Tiny slivers of blue
    Cerulean and cobalt

    The Here of Yesterday
    Is there a difference…
    The here of yesterday
    The here of now
    Strung together
    Like shiny beads
    All one
    Yesterday and today

    Nov 3

  13. MichelleMcEwen

    Ocean Beach

    The last time I was here
    was in ‘88— maybe.

    It’s been so long.

    They still sell ice cream
    and pizza on the boardwalk.

    Summers, daddy would drive us
    here in the station wagon.

    Not knowing how to swim,
    we spent the whole day

    in the sand
    next to our radio:

    Mama sleeping
    Daddy eating
    Missy reading
    Shana dreaming
    Joyce screaming

    Me keeping my eyes,
    like now, on the swimming

    girls— jealous of what their bodies
    were doing beneath waves.

    1. MichelleMcEwen


      Ocean Beach

      The last time I was here
      was in ‘88— maybe.

      It’s been so long.

      They still sell ice cream
      and pizza on the boardwalk.

      Summers, daddy would drive us
      here in the station wagon.

      Not knowing how to swim,
      we spent the whole day

      in the sand
      next to our radio:

      Mama sleeping
      Daddy eating
      Missy reading
      Shana dreaming
      Joyce screaming

      Me keeping my eye,
      like now, on the swimming

      girls— jealous of what their bodies
      were doing beneath the waves.

      1. MichelleMcEwen

        FINAL EDIT; I wasn’t happy with how it was.

        Ocean Beach

        The last time I was here
        was in ‘88— maybe.

        It’s been so long.

        They still sell ice cream
        and pizza on the boardwalk.

        Summers, daddy would drive us
        here in the station wagon.

        Not knowing how to swim,
        we spent the whole day

        in the sand
        next to our radio:

        Mama sleeping
        Daddy eating
        one sis reading
        another sis dreaming
        baby sis screaming

        Me keeping my eye,
        like now, on the swimming

        girls— jealous of what their bodies
        were doing beneath the water. .

  14. bjzeimer

    Copyright (C) Beverly Zeimer, All rights reserved.


    The last time I was here
    a big white farmhouse stood right over there
    across the railroad tracks–
    in that shady area between the pear tree,
    and the lilac bushes over to the side
    where that pile of ashes is–
    a white picket fence
    that’s gone too. Using the white
    clapboard siding for a backdrop
    and our Kodak Brownie,
    we put on our best taffeta
    dresses, curled our hair like our
    favorite movie star and took
    turns posing for pictures.
    I styled my hair like Lucille Ball’s
    and posed under the white flowering
    pear tree wearing a yellow dress
    and red lipstick I kept hidden
    from our mother, all that’s left
    of it a memory of the beautiful red
    color in the gold case,
    and the pile of ash and wood
    between the pear tree and
    lilacs still blooming like
    they were the last time I was here.

  15. Jezzie


    Last time I was here it was in the Spring,
    and there was a freshness about everything.
    Trees were dressed in their leafy lime green
    and pink cherry blossom was everywhere to be seen.
    There was a spring in my step as I walked along
    listening to the bright early morning birdsong.

    Now in the Autumn I’ve come here again
    just before dusk, and it’s starting to rain.
    Trees are dressed in their harlequin suits
    and I’m kicking up the fallen leaves in my boots.
    I’m tired and weary just like those trees
    and waiting for my rest during the winter freeze.

  16. mjdills

    a “the last time I was here” poem

    there was no bloodletting; only sorrow
    the will to have a hollow heart …
    yet all the tears that once filled an ocean
    had turned to salt and stood like a pillar in the land of Lot.
    we stood akimbo from one another
    chins of steel
    elbows piercing
    one to the east, the other west
    if only I had allowed you to spend your back on mine, to feel the warmth, to nuzzle, coo and let go of a tiny giggle…

  17. rosross

    The last time I was here I was ten.

    Head raised, ruffled at the sill of memory and regret,
    where tangled locks did gather and grace the hewn edge,
    to fall, softly, in disarray, as breath frosted cold glass,
    and grief drew frozen fingertips to trace the past;
    so then did questions force the word in place, the Why?
    that had no answer; the need that would forever be denied.

    Dry lips pushed drier shapes of lettered, rigid form
    so warm it fell as frost, as new life, glittered born,
    and wrote in ice the message that demanded to be seen,
    in scattered image, shattered voice and ancient keen;
    as silence gathered strength, made reason pause,
    dismissing childhood stories; destroying hidden cause.

  18. rdpater

    First thunder

    Not long after the ground had been broken
    I’d learned to dribble
    and we’d made a house a home
    We stored windex beneath the sink
    along with empty grocery bags
    Between the nozzles and plastic
    Was room for me
    To hide from my new home
    Where everything around me rumbled
    My stomach the air and the walls

  19. Alyssa McNulty

    Ice cold water splashes the wooden stakes.
    Wooden stakes beat into a beach to hold up barbed wire.
    Rusted wires are long since gone but the wood stands strong.
    They stood as a first defense against our freedoms.
    Freedom that was won gives me the luxury to
    walk along the silent beaches in Normandy.

    A clean, unpolluted beach bears no mark but
    the wooden stakes
    that pierced the soldiers as they ran
    against the tides that hit the sands still.

    Tranquil rolling hills topped with green grass
    and a path that wanders down to the beach
    leads me away from innocence and towards
    the grated realities that gave me what I have.

    I traveled to understand and
    realize how real the tales the bloodless beaches hold.
    I return ever so often by memory lane
    to remember.

  20. Cin5456

    The Last Time

    The last time I was here, vandals –
    a trashed house, but livable. Now…
    Look, that’s where the printers sat,
    and Mom’s loom stood this high and wide.
    All my science fiction books – gone.
    In fact, all the best books are missing.
    Power tools, new bicycle, weed whackers,
    my collector’s edition encyclopedias.
    and a drawer full of connectors
    and wires, Who would steal wires,
    but not the TV? Thank goodness,
    my dishes are still here. My neighbor
    showed up in time to save appliances
    the thieves had already dragged outside,
    the washer, dryer, and refrigerator.
    It’s heartbreaking to remember
    all the things I used to depend on.
    I don’t know if I have the heart
    to pack what’s left, but I must.
    Then I leave for the last time.

  21. Earl Parsons

    The Visit

    So much had changed
    Most not for the better
    Old friends mostly gone
    Moved to other places
    For jobs and opportunities
    And a better life

    So much run down
    Poverty the norm now
    Money moved South
    Jobs moved right behind
    Population on the decline
    Just the elderly remained
    For the most part

    But why
    Why the decline
    This once great town
    Nearing extinction
    Did no one care
    It appeared not

    I left many years ago
    For much the same reasons
    As many more that had gone
    No future
    No jobs
    No opportunities
    And no change

    It brought me to tears
    So I moved on

  22. Cin5456

    My Mission This Year

    November is a cold month
    for remembering what’s lost.
    The last time I was here
    the house had been trashed
    by squatters and vandals.
    The year before that,
    I came to assess fire damage.
    A few months ago, thieves
    tried to strip the place bare.
    Now my mission is to
    inventory the loss
    and pack the rest.
    It’s heartbreaking to recall
    all the things I thought
    would still be here for
    my return, waiting to support
    my summer writing retreat.
    But last summer, I stayed
    in town to write. Somebody
    found out it was vacant,
    and took their time
    deciding what to steal.
    It’s not the things I miss
    so much as I miss this town,
    this place I used to call home
    and wish I still could.

  23. Sara McNulty

    No Crumbling Allowed

    Muster up my strength
    Must fight this fresh bout
    of emotional distress,
    where mind and body join
    forces to create a mess-
    age of red panic, and black
    tar that mars my hope.
    I will shower, makeup
    my face to face the world.
    This is not new. The last
    time I stepped into
    this nightmare, . . .well,
    I will not go there.

  24. Margie Fuston

    Dear Bampa,

    I still stay in the spare room—
    like when I used to visit.

    In the mornings,
    I drink coffee from the Snoopy mug
    I got you last Christmas
    while sorting through your collections
    of WWII movies
    and trains.

    At night,
    I press my ear to the thin wall
    between your old room and mine,
    thinking I hear that spring,
    you know, the one that always squeaked
    when you rolled over in your bed.
    I can’t seem to sleep
    in silence.

  25. Missy McEwen

    Chocolate City

    Used to be you
    didn’t hardly see
    no White faces
    on the streets of DC.

    Used to be you
    could count the number
    of White people
    in Columbia

    Heights on one
    hand, could punch
    a brotha in the arm
    and yell

    Punch Buggy
    when a White man
    or woman walked by
    even though

    they’re people
    and not old Volkswagen
    Beetles but you
    get the picture.

    They was rare there
    and everywhere
    for the most part,
    except for George-

    town and even that
    used to be
    mostly black back
    in the 70s

    kicked us

  26. dandelionwine

    The Last Time

    I was here, and Cindy,
    as any loyal bodyguard
    would, retrieved my first
    grade show and tell rock
    emblazoned with an “e”
    from the hands of Eric.
    In third grade I walked,
    oblivious, into the middle
    of a playground fight,
    then huddled under a tree
    with a black eye. The last
    time I was here, I slouched
    for the sixth grade photo,
    then took a winding path
    away and back to these
    elementary halls. An old
    classmate notes I appear
    much taller. I am.

  27. bethwk

    Here we go again,
    me and Mike Finnegan,
    and some old Benedictine:
    Begin again,
    begin again,
    begin again.

    I thought I had evolved
    past the brooding and the sulk,
    past lack of will, lack of resolve.
    Begin again,
    begin again,
    begin again.

    The last time I was here,
    the emptiness was vaster,
    I was drawn to the disaster.
    Begin again,
    begin again,
    begin again.

    Today that distant light
    seems brighter, closer, right
    around the corner.
    Begin again,
    begin again,
    begin again.

  28. Natasa Bozic Grojic

    Not too happy with this, but here it goes:

    Last time I visited
    We had hot chestnuts
    From the oven
    And I could still find my way
    Round your kitchen.
    Your wedding picture
    (the one I am in)
    Was on the wall.
    You were planning to go to Paris.
    You hated modern art
    And bold colours.
    Today we talk about
    How cold it is
    For this time of the year
    As a stranger walks in
    And says he is happy
    To meet me
    At last.

  29. Amy

    The Boom

    The last time I was here, I was taller than the trees,
    but didn’t know what to do with the inches;
    knock-kneed and long-limbed.

    The cottonwoods shed their leaves
    just as I shed a skin that never quite fit;
    a bark deeply etched with flaws.

    Now, it seems, I have contracted
    as the cottonwood giants tower above
    like ochre jailers dangling their rusted keys.

    But they do not hold sway any longer and
    I wonder as my feet crunch over fallen casings,
    how I could have been fooled by their

    lonely limbs.

    1. PressOn

      I find this fascinati8ng, partly because poplars do tend to look spindly when leafless, despite the massive crowns they bear when in leaf; “lonely limbs,” therefore, sounds both peculiar and right. Mainly, though, I’m fascinated by the idea of you being taller than a tree. This is an absorbing poem.

  30. Cameron Steele

    The Dock by The Bay

    I used to know how it
    felt to stand on the edge
    of our dock, knock-kneed
    and weak, head bent
    against your neck as
    you pointed out satellites.
    We pretended they were stars.

    I don’t remember when you let
    go of the myth that we would be
    great or even just OK. Loneliness
    crept up on me the way dusk
    always used to steal across
    the harbor. It’s funny how what you
    don’t even notice can feel familiar.

    Now that I’m here again
    I sit up straight and stare
    at the water. If I don’t
    blink maybe I can will
    our old reflection into the waves:
    A starry-eyed couple hopelessly caught
    on the edge of life, casting wishes to the wind.

  31. Joanna Truman

    “old days”

    sweltering summers, we stayed inside
    cool breeze winters, we rode our bikes at night
    smoked cigarettes on the docks
    and watched the pelicans pick up fish.
    we stripped ourselves of sand and skin
    buried in the salt dunes
    black grains beneath our feet
    and pebbles between our toes.

    we drank because
    we thought it brave
    spelling our names on our backs
    shooting stars out of our mouths
    we looked up
    and shouted
    about forever.

    but see, that was a long time ago.
    now the concrete is hot and
    the water is warm
    now i spend my nights alone
    on hammocks and under stars
    falling asleep early
    to the sound of the tide coming in.

  32. Jerry Walraven

    “Last Time Home”

    Standing in the road
    with my 5 year old daughter,
    showing her the home
    I lived in
    when I was five,
    I am reminded
    that memory
    is not only
    a factor of time
    but of eyes
    and minds
    and little feet
    counting steps
    the garage
    and the road
    and marveling
    at the distance.
    which now
    has vanished-
    by miles
    and small fingers
    held in mine.

  33. DanielAri

    “Last I passed”

    The last time I was here,
    we walked through the gardens,
    fed grass to the horses
    in the pasture, walked down
    all the way to the shore.

    We sat while our dog ran
    the sand into her mouth,
    talked of being parents,
    stood on the packed, wet berm
    barefoot. When the sun shone

    low, late in that summer,
    we went to the English
    Inn, a decadent time
    of french fries and fried fish,
    dark beer, generous pints,

    hot cocoa with so much
    whipped cream, just as you’d wish.


  34. JRSimmang


    Where’d I go?
    You don’t want me to get into that right now.
    All’s I can say is that the road ain’t gotten shorter.
    It was nice to see that the name on the mailbox
    hadn’t changed.
    Some reason, thought it would, ‘specially after I
    got that crazy notion in my head and had to leave in the first place.
    Then again, it weren’t all that crazy. You did kiss ‘im out
    under the willow tree.
    Yeah, you thought I didn’t see it, but I did.
    Hey, it’s okay.
    Truth is, I drove out to the stadium that night, caught in the bleachers, where
    we first held hands, and you said that you loved me. I sat there until the
    stars held me up in the heavens and clothed me in their robes, and they
    sang to me like my ma used to sing to me when I couldn’t sleep.
    Well, I didn’t sleep. After I’d had enough, realizing that the stars let me fall,
    I got in the truck, and drove. I drove straight on until the world flipped
    on itself, but
    funny thing is
    when you’re on your belly side, rock bottom looks like solid top,
    and just when you think it’s over, well, what’s really happening is that it’s
    only just begun.
    Thant’s why. That’s why I had to come all the way back over here.
    Now, I know it’s been too long,
    but I knew.
    I knew that that name on the mailbox wouldn’t change,
    because that kiss under the willow tree
    weren’t a kiss.
    Your lips met only to exchange a name, my name,
    because he saw me reflected in your eyes,
    and you still smelled my cologne in your jacket.

    -JR Simmang

  35. DWong


    Blue two-storey,
    you matched the inner mood
    that condemned each soul
    that lived within
    those walls behind
    the willow,
    the rocks,
    the flowers,
    the prickly cactus.

    You look at me
    quietly asking me
    where before it saw
    my wretched bones,
    my glasses,
    my hair,
    my body,
    my clearly aged soul.

    I looked right back.
    It was evident
    you were not the one
    ever be blamed
    for the grief,
    ignored screams
    unwanted battles.

    Blue two-storey,
    I hope they take care of
    your floors and your walls.
    I hated you
    for all that
    That was wrong.
    I regret it.

    My dear old house,
    I hope you forgive
    the banged doors, bashed walls
    harsh words and tears
    None of it
    your fault.
    I miss you.
    My old refuge.

  36. Connie Inglis


    I paint a memory–
    Three shadows
    chasing crabs,
    collecting shells,
    warm waves burying feet and toes
    against a masterful sky
    pinks and oranges and gold.

    My brush pulling purple ripples,
    around dancing feet.
    A sweet, simpler time.

    To paint a returning–
    The sky still brilliant
    reflected in gentle waves and sand. Yet–
    without shadows,
    without connection,
    without joy.
    The sky appears dull, lifeless.

    My brush, lost to silent ripples,
    would rather remain silent
    in the memory.

  37. Connie Peters

    Nowhere to Somewhere

    The last time I was in Ketchikan
    I was a cruise ship tourist.
    Now I’m a permanent fixture
    like the New York hotel
    with its multilayered history.
    And here I am with mine,
    looking for a job,
    a new start.
    Searching for You.

  38. Jacqueline Hallenbeck

    The last time I was here
    I must’ve been a turtle.
    I walk so slow sometimes.
    Or a 19th century poet
    full to the brim with rhymes.
    Some days, out of the blue,
    I walk into a place
    and I swear it’s Deja Vu.
    I’m hyper, so I’m quite sure
    I HAVE been here before.


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