16.**
What a small weight for the most important gas,
that is keeping us alive.
I was 16 when I realized that my mom
had forever been my biggest supporter.
I was 16 and I was still holding my fingers crossed behind my back,
hoping that Santa was real.

I'm the hidden meaning behind good reasons
that have paved the way toward bad choices.
For I have realized, sitting silently in the corner,
that we are all forced to realize our
own self destruction.

Like the building and the wrecking ball,
of which I am often both.

I am your overspoken words and unsaid thoughts.

I am not the beautiful bare trees in the winter,
but instead I am your poisonous dinner.

I am the passion behind tears
and the emotion behind screams.

I am the thoughts that keep you up at night,
and your cold, bare feet.

I resemble a constant string of avoidance and indecisiveness.

I am your dewy eyes and groggy voice at 7:30 in the morning.

I am nothing but a blinking statue.

I am 16 years worth of unanswered questions.

Yet in 16 years will all I be is
another 16 years older?

I am the epitome of drowning without water,
and not to spoil the ending for you,
but I still have 16 years worth of faith,
that everything will be okay.