At 12 years old they called me slow.
I was the weird “quiet girl”.
Contemplative with every word
I lived in a dream like introverted world.
They called me slow
In the way I moved, but especially the way I talked
but I look back at those days.
Those days I despised myself for who I was
and I see the beauty.
I don’t wanna be fast,
Jumping at every verb.
A hurried life, a fast forward thinking.
Can’t barely catch myself from saying every content of my mind.
A vomit of information, a situation where life gets too real, too painful
from living life in the fast lane.
Fatal,
I don’t want a hurried mind a hurried response a hurried heart scurried and lost.
I am slow and
I am soft.
I am heart and I am soul.
And I am a lullaby
sung best when sung slow.
kaleidoscopeonline.ca 