The mind of a child is something that fascinates me. Here's a sonnet written by an 11 year old me
Why does summer haunt thee like a white ghost?
It follows me around forever more.
Summer is the season I love the most.
The daffodils I do not care for.
I was buried under a cherry tree
As the daffodils grow above my head.
Long frilly sprouts grow above me
My orange body lies still, but I am not dead.
My triangular body is sprouting roots,
I could be made into a tasty stew.
Everyday I wear the same orange suit.
Help me I don't want to be turned into something new.
Should I be tortured and cut into bits?
I'm just a carrot, I don't need slits.
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