The Art of Growing Up

by vkinsey30

October 4, 2015

Teddy bears and toys with bright button eyes

Watch me from their places on the shelf

Dust has settled on them, and on their ribbon ties

The dolls with crumpled dresses, the one lonely smiling elf

But I find that I cannot care for them so much as once before

And it seems that I’m no child, anymore

My oldest, sister, with two children of her own

No husband, a house, a car, and a rent to pay

I want to see you like I used too, an idol proud and grown

Beautiful and tempestuous like the wind that blows away

But now I see the record of the late nights

Gathered in dark shadows beneath your eyes

Now that you’re flying different kinds of kites

And the smoke clings to your skin just like the lies

Lies you’re telling now, the same you’ve told before,

And it seems we are not children anymore.

My older sister, conflicted middle child

Next year you will be leaving, you say to join the Navy

Serving a greater purpose while roaming free and wild

Far from home, across a strange and unknown sea

And lately you have confessed

That you like girls instead of men

And I shouldn’t feel so distressed

But I worry for your soul, because then again

There’s a bible on my bed where there wasn’t one before

And it seems we are not children anymore

My Dearest Little Brother, golden one

Once upon a time I carried you around

On my very shoulders into the summer sun

And your laughter was the sweetest sound

Yet now you walk alone, and now you stronger stand

Your laughter and your voice sound deeper

I know that soon you’ll be a man

The roads you tread now are steeper

The challenges you face are greater than before

And it seems we are not children anymore.

I look into the mirror’s darkened glass

And I want to say I recognize and understand

The stranger staring back, but at last

I look away, and stare down at the white hand

Clenching the bathroom counter somewhat tighter than before

And it seems I am no child anymore

It’s six o’clock, and the house is crowded now

Dinner plates clink together, voices shout aloud,

Laughing, fighting, and battling to be heard somehow

Above the jokes and banter of the noisy, happy crowd

And although we are not children, nor innocent anymore

It seems we still may live and love the same as once before.

Something wrong with this poem?

Replies are closed for this poem.

Your Poem's Voice

See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.

Comments (0)

No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.