The bookcase,
Old and tattered,
Holding fond memories of childhood.
The christmas book,
Lays there so peacefully,
Reminding me of the milk and cookies,
That satisfied me as my mom read aloud ,
And I was snuggled in my cozy bed.
But then I look to the right ,
And to the left,
And all around that little christmas book.
No other books of my childhood lay there,
But grown up books.
SAT prep, AP, IB, ACT ,
All collapsing and overflowing ,
Thick, stiff, and barbaric,
Coming in and infiltrating a place meant for chasteness.
They do not belong in that bookcase.
And as we grow older,
We leave behind all the memories,
In attempt to pass tests,
Which seems to determine our entire existence.
Is it really worth it ?