Poetry and Youth
Nine years and trembling and afraid
You learn the comfort of words for the first time
Poetry is too big for your fragile mind.
Ten years and unsure and sad
You learn the comfort of poetry for the first time
You memorize the single stanza posted on the wall
In the school
And you can breathe
Eleven years and fearing and lost
The snow on the roof of your new home is a poem in itself
Your best friend's laugh is a single stanza posted on the walls
Of your soul
You write your first poem.
Twelve years feels soft and quiet
Like a poem
And you can breathe.
Thirteen and it's bad again-
And you keep writing and-
The words are all wrong and-
You no longer understand poetry.
Fourteen years and it makes sense now
The sun on your shoulders is poetry
You write poems on the edges of your homework
You write poems on the palms of your hands
You write stories
Endlessly.
Fifteen and her hair is a poem
Blonde
And soft
And lovely.
You want to write about the flowers it plants in your soul.
Sixteen, and it's
The words are
Are not coming
Frustrating
Boring
Bland
Seventeen, and your heart is broken
The words come easy now,
But poetry is no longer flowers
It is no longer peace
It has edges
And it draws blood
And maybe
That's the way
Poetry was always meant to be
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