I was raised in an apartment,

tattered from our humble family.

I was raised with the smell of petrichor— 

for it drapes heavy on our cul-de-sac.

I was raised with the farm tractors outside,

working away the day.

When I was raised, I saw shadows

hover over my family as the sun settled down.

When I was raised, I saw the struggles of deciding paths—

for no path would remain untouched.

When I was raised, I learned the tough way

because without error it seemed too effortless.

What I learned is, childhood won’t last for life

it sheds like trees in autumn.

What I learned is, I dread the shadows from long ago— 

for they could fall upon myself.

What I learned is, that to have strength 

I must remember how I was raised.