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.