My Little Piece of Heaven
AP Lang and Comp
6B
28 August 2012
My little piece of Heaven As I park my car in the worn out spot, I gaze on the path I beat out of the ground in my converse. I think about the laughter, the sounds, smiling, the smells of the budding bushes and fresh cut grass. All of that is gone. The grass is lifless straw held to the ground by withering roots. The lawnmower has a permanent rusting spot, under the creaking pine tree. The laughter is silenced by the sound of the wind as it rushes past each tree, calling me to say something. I walk past the community pool. The patio around the pool is vandelized with grafitti. The covering of the pool is supporting the weight of the lifeguard stand, the lounge chairs, and the toilet from the bathroom. The bushes have overtaken the fence and the pool appears to be a battle scene from World War II. As I walk I see the playground where I first learned to pump my legs and swing. The color of the playground had been sucked out, just as the life was sucked out of this park. The swing lay lifeless with half of the swing sleeping on the woodchips. The same path I used to take to the creek was still beaten and worn and the grass hadn’t managed to overtake my kingdom. I followed that path just like I had every day of my youth. When I brushed the branches and leaves that cover the secret hideout I see that the ground is no longer sprinkled with fresh vegitation. I smell Marijuana and stumble over a rigged bong constructed out of a two liter coke bottle. As I become more aware these so called bongs are covering the floor of the woods. I ran over to my favorite place in the whole entire world; the rope swing. The swing had been cut off of the weeping tree, bent over in distress. The sound of the running creek could not be heard because the kids had blocked the flow of the creek with blue Wal-Mart plastic bags, their shirts, and their bongs. The bank of the creek where I would squish my toes into the tiny weathered rocks
6B
28 August 2012
My little piece of Heaven As I park my car in the worn out spot, I gaze on the path I beat out of the ground in my converse. I think about the laughter, the sounds, smiling, the smells of the budding bushes and fresh cut grass. All of that is gone. The grass is lifless straw held to the ground by withering roots. The lawnmower has a permanent rusting spot, under the creaking pine tree. The laughter is silenced by the sound of the wind as it rushes past each tree, calling me to say something. I walk past the community pool. The patio around the pool is vandelized with grafitti. The covering of the pool is supporting the weight of the lifeguard stand, the lounge chairs, and the toilet from the bathroom. The bushes have overtaken the fence and the pool appears to be a battle scene from World War II. As I walk I see the playground where I first learned to pump my legs and swing. The color of the playground had been sucked out, just as the life was sucked out of this park. The swing lay lifeless with half of the swing sleeping on the woodchips. The same path I used to take to the creek was still beaten and worn and the grass hadn’t managed to overtake my kingdom. I followed that path just like I had every day of my youth. When I brushed the branches and leaves that cover the secret hideout I see that the ground is no longer sprinkled with fresh vegitation. I smell Marijuana and stumble over a rigged bong constructed out of a two liter coke bottle. As I become more aware these so called bongs are covering the floor of the woods. I ran over to my favorite place in the whole entire world; the rope swing. The swing had been cut off of the weeping tree, bent over in distress. The sound of the running creek could not be heard because the kids had blocked the flow of the creek with blue Wal-Mart plastic bags, their shirts, and their bongs. The bank of the creek where I would squish my toes into the tiny weathered rocks