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A poem about what bugs me that is also my homework. [Moorside] . Submitted by Heather (Award 211), age 19

Most apples I see are green,
But Iíve heard of a big one that is full of colours and soul.
They say most of its grey, and stretches into the sky,
But below the skyscrapers are people; vibrant, even when they grow old.

However apples can be a mystery,
Like Cluedo, an enigmatic game,
As if one is to fall from a tree,
It means similar or the same.

Another thing that puzzles me,
The prospect of shooting stars,
Shootingís illegal where I come from,
Yet itís allowed in space and Mars?

Itís despicable when you see a star,
Running across the sky,
Itís obviously just shot someone,
And canít bear to watch them die,

Or I suppose it could be trying to escape,
From the clutches of the star police,
Everyone should just put down their guns,
And settle for some peace.

And I donít get when people lift you up,
And say: ĎYouíre light as a feather!í
It just confuses me to some extent,
As no-one will be, not ever,

I know itís just a simile,
But if you held a feather in your hand,
Then compared it to lifting me up high,
Surely youíd understand.

Itís okay if you donít,
Not many people do,
But share what youíre confused about,
And Iíll see if I understand you.

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