The ****** fuzz of adulthood
on the horizon
appears nearer than ever.
Crossing into frosty territory,
the frigid space between young
and not so young.
Six thousand five hundred
seventy four days
to get used to this voice.
To become familiar with these bones,
the way they crunch,
toes bent like ancient forks.
Days will be bloated with things
we never thought
we’d have to think about.
The ECG lines of our lives
flapping up and down,
a white wild skipping-rope.
They say it’s down to us now.
It’s our generation who will destroy,
then make flowers from the rubble.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
The ****** fuzz of adulthood
on the horizon
appears nearer than ever.
Crossing into frosty territory,
the frigid space between young
and not so young.
Six thousand five hundred
seventy four days
to get used to this voice.
To become familiar with these bones,
the way they crunch,
toes bent like ancient forks.
Days will be bloated with things
we never thought
we’d have to think about.
The ECG lines of our lives
flapping up and down,
a white wild skipping-rope.
They say it’s down to us now.
It’s our generation who will destroy,
then make flowers from the rubble.
Written: October 2015.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time (100 words long), sort of inspired by the fact a friend of mine turns eighteen today (I am 22). All feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP in the coming months.
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