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Rated: E · Poetry · Personal · #1733880
A poem about the strange age of 16.
Future in the distance,
Past is unforgotten,
Present swelling under stress,
Soggy ball of cotton.
Words are explanations,
Art: familiar faces,
Love is a forbidden word
And so I’m leaving spaces.
Talks are competition,
Stories: fascinations,
Time is slow and fast,
Falling down between elations.
World is getting bigger,
People growing stranger,
Hope is growing hotter,
But it’s cooler now than danger.
“Look” I’m searching always,
“Hear” I strain my hearing,
“Listen,” well what the heck,
Would I be doing when I’m hearing?
Roads are winding memories,
Tears evaporating,
Fields are ghostly shadows,
Of a teammate that is fading.
“Wrong” but it’s opinion.
Cluelessness? Not new now,
It’s a tired old dominion.
Look! You are not looking,
Mazes growing taller,
What is in the distance?
Who exactly is my caller?
Down, I’m falling down now,
Tired and I’m young still
They say my brain is growing,
Is that why every noise is so shrill?
Tears: they’re such a stranger,
Yet she’s always sobbing,
Sobbing: an action carried out,
When broken hearts are throbbing.
See? You’re still not seeing.
Broken is an adverb,
Brokenly she carries out her life,
It’s not so much a proverb.
Wisdom comes from God,
And so does understanding.
Wisdom: endless questions.
Understanding: less demanding.
Thoughts are my adventures,
They don’t need explanations.
Songs send my dreams spinning,
‘till they call with desperation.
Mind: a loving friend now,
I lose myself to dreaming,
Wrong? How would I manage,
With the pressures ever teeming.
Gone, my heart is gone now,
Gone now from his fallows,
Look, he’s walking other ways,
Is that me being shallow?
Bright. That’s what I feel now,
Supported by creator.
I feel like life’s a musical,
Except I’m bad at theatre.
Echo,
But of what though?
The question coming back slow,
Listening again until the words stop going to and fro.
Friendship: like a minefield,
Watch where I am treading,
Minefield in a maze, well,
Isn’t this what I’ve been dreading?!
Oh, it’s all so loud now,
Oh, their words are spinning,
Oh I’m falling backwards and
Along my silence skimming.
See? I think you’re looking,
But who knows what you’re seeing,
Amazing how not making sense,
Is oddly kind of freeing.

© Copyright 2010 Elise Wilson (meg.e.wilson at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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