by Alan Clavell (age 12)


One may think it is unfair for life to carry the burden of despair, but in my opinion it shall come better to leave in the bright afternoon glare.

From the pitchest black to the brightest white, you might lose sight of great opportunities.

Come, sit down; let us have a chat. Maybe the future shall not be so pitch black.

From the sharp blade of anxiety to the long, gripping arm of depression, you may never know if it shall master deception.

I only see dark, no light. Feels like the middle of the blackest night.