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Kara MacLean  Dec 2010
Kara MacLean Dec 2010
the age of uncertainty
underdeveloped prefrontal cortex
development of morality

inside, still a child
outside fully pubescent
on your own

too young for the real thing
but slowly learning the landscape
to the world of adulthood

the age of beauty
blossoming realizations

the worlds not what it seems
experience things in a new way
that you never though existed

the peak of psychological disorders
anxiety and depression
fear, instability
and restlessness

last year as a teen
a year filled with mystery
and hope

not a breath wasted
if you know how,
keep breathing
a name  Jul 6
a name Jul 6




my heart was broken at 19.

granted, it's been broken before
but not as wild
i felt heartache at nineteen

i saw the mountains at 19

with music playing
like sirens on an emerald
i found truth at nineteen

truth beyond me
beyond me such
that i didn't matter anymore

i found out i was broken
at nineteen

and i spent my wasted hours
fixing a gravel path
looking for blinding lights
gnawing at oxen corpses

waiting for 19 to end
into a 20
for another year of
another backache

another **** decade, as well

but nineteen was fun, too

nineteen i listened to music
on the dark empty road
and found happiness in nothing

nineteen i slept for fifteen hours
every day
and fed off marrow after the hard case

nineteen i told someone i loved them
and they knew they were loved
even when everything was grim

nineteen i was better
than eighteen
oh, tons better

(eighteen me was an absolute *******,
just the worst ******* pillock)

and i will wait for 19 to end
into 20
another year
another backache

and another me
better than before
happy birthday to another *******
monique ezeh May 2020
The drip drip drip of the Nespresso machine keeps me company.
I watch the brown pool rise and rise, filling my cup.
I take a sip, flinch unconsciously. It is bitter and scalding.
The cool foam coats my top lip.
No one is awake. It is 4am. I shouldn’t be awake.
Still, I am.
I will be nineteen in nineteen days.

This is not how I imagined my nineteenth; though my birthdays never really go the way I expect.
This is not how I imagined this month, this year.
There are worse things than being homebound; there are also better things.
I am trying to reconcile the existence of the two.

I am lucky enough to be (almost) nineteen.
To be safe
To be healthy
To have a home
To have a stable family income

I am unlucky enough to be (almost) nineteen.
To be mentally ill
To be isolated
To feel useless
To have a family spread thin

The two can coexist. I am lucky (and unlucky) enough to see this.

In nineteen days, I will be nineteen. Few people will know unless I tell them. There are bigger things to consider in the world. There are smaller ones too. I lie somewhere amid it all. I am just a girl— a faceless, healthy girl— amid a world of strife. The sun will rise, I will turn nineteen, and it will set; I doubt I will feel any different. The world will keep turning, with or without me. I am lucky (and unlucky) enough to recognize this.
Quarantine has provided me a bit too much time for introspection, I think.

My coffee is finished. The brown drops on the cup’s bottom resemble a smile. I am lucky enough to notice this.
been thinking a lot about the nature of existing in such an uncertain time. the world keeps spinning, even when it feels like it shouldn't. I'm not quite sure yet how to feel about the constance of mundanity; I don't know if there's a particular way I should feel.
Third Eye Candy Dec 2012
At Nineteen Miles An Hour, Smoking On A Train

chugging along the lilacs of twilight in the plasma darkening of a stretch
we fetch the improbable road to our destination. we give a ****. but the birds are listening.
and that might lead to luggage. so much, you might sweep the light fantastic
into army hats. you might march a sustained coup on your hopeless epiphanies.
at nineteen miles an hour, on a train... you see your god.
are you too light to darken the right words
to a happy demise?

are your zeroes at odds?
Danielle Paige Apr 2017
This week I turn twenty
and nineteen is ready for the future,
nineteen doesn’t snap and growl anymore,
nineteen isn’t all struck matches
and lips like gasoline,
not all clenched teeth, clenched fists-  
closed heart and sharp tongue.
Seventeen and eighteen hold hands
because they need each other
to cope, and nineteen knows better
but it wasn’t enough
to shake off the nightmares.
Nineteen was the start of something
so much more than the sorry excuse
of seventeen, from which
sixteen still hasn’t recovered
and doesn’t want to talk about it anyway.
Sixteen missed her father
and eighteen couldn’t have cared less,
seventeen spent longer trying
to justify her emotions
than actually feeling them,
but nineteen was left with all that
bitterness and nothing
to sweeten the deal.
Twenty is ready for the next battle,
ready to pat nineteen on the shoulder
and offer her a place to rest,
twenty is the words “it’s safe now”
mumbled in an ear late at night
with arms around a lover.
Twenty is still purple, still violet, still violent-
there’s growing up still to do
but twenty is okay with that.
Samantha LeRoy Feb 2016
in my family, nineteen means
a desert.
stretch and sand and thirst.
we claw at our skin,
convinced the heat is something we can ****
if we just scratch hard enough.

in my family, nineteen means
needle meets wrist.
our bodies a wasps nest
of shaking hands
and too wide eyes.
we lavish in stings and ******
and forearms of thorns.
we lap up the blood.

in my family, nineteen means
hospital stays.
bruised limbs.
heavy legs and even heavier eye lids.

in my family, nineteen means
chapped lips
and bleeding gums.
sinks stained with blood.
teeth swirling down the drain.
throats rubbed raw
with all the screams we’ve
kept under lock and key.
every agony that has
wrung itself dry and
broken our spines.

in my family, nineteen means
somehow on both sides
of the bayonet.
never shooting until
i see the whites of my own eyes.

in my family, nineteen means
and sunflowers.
and daises.
and death.

in my family, nineteen means
a black widow
spinning its last web.
Mark Boucher Jan 2013
Nineteen and my only problem is feeling,
It tires and tears me at the seams,
As if I should be a structure so perfect,
Even I wish I knew what this means,

But I know what to compare with a glance and a glare,
Like I don’t know the face of a lie,
And I’m sure she’s pretty and standing next to me,
While I’m as boring as that train ride to truth,

Matters will never matter when I get there,
As though I’m your truth and you’re still scared,
I would beg you to forget me if you can accept honesty,
Then nineteen and feelings wouldn’t be so hard, honestly...
I said I hated you.
Martin Narrod  May 2014
Martin Narrod May 2014
The likes of you I can't describe,
Yet I love to eat between your thighs.
The melody you spake to me
Unfolds my greatest sovereignty.
I crave to quaff all of your spit,
And swallow every drop of it.
Don't cheat me of your tasty flesh,
Those bare and supple ****** *******,
Your eyes that follow my firm gaze,
While we kiss and lick and misbehave.
I need to feel each piece of skin,
Smashing girl and boy parts over and over again.
It's such a treat to eat you whole;
I'm obsessed with eating 19-year-olds.
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Stephanie Irvin Aug 2013
I’m eighteen today.
My shirt is crumpled on the floor. My socks are still on.
I’m eighteen today.  
My eyes try and focus on the ceiling. That’s cheap tile. This house is old.
I’m eighteen today.
I drank too many beers.  I think my cigarettes are by the pool..
I’m eighteen today.  
I’m ******* Steve. He doesn’t know my name.
I’m eighteen today.
Not like I thought he’d  be. His cheeks are rough and sudden.
I’ll be eighteen tomorrow.
I’ll write down his name. I know it by heart.  Number 28.

I’m nineteen today.
I’m in a bathroom. The light is off. I’m kissing girls.
I’m nineteen today.
At a house that I couldn’t find my way home from.
I’m nineteen today.
Her hands squeeze my *******. She’s not into it, I can tell.
I’m nineteen today.
Four people are at my feet. Hands pull at my skirt.
I’m nineteen today.
I’m loving this. But it will be over before it gets good.

I’m twenty today.
A plastic cup in my hand. He’s pushing up on me.
I’m twenty today.
She’s standing on the stairs. I know I’ll walk her home later.
I’m twenty today.
The grass is cold and wet. Her hand on my arm.
I’m twenty today.
Walk her to the door. I wish she’d ask me up.
I’m twenty today.

I’m 31 today.
He’s naked next to me. He knows I love him.
I’m 31 today.
He asked me if I was gay. Said he just wants to know.
I’m 31 today.
I smile and say no and take his **** in my hand.

I was 22 that day.
Driving her back from the hospital.
I was 22 that day.
Her small warm hand rubbed the back of my neck.
I was 22 that day.
It was the first time I felt whole.
I was 22 that day.

I’m 34 today
And he’s stopped asking me.
MANY ingenious lovely things are gone
That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude,
protected from the circle of the moon
That pitches common things about.  There stood
Amid the ornamental bronze and stone
An ancient image made of olive wood --
And gone are phidias' famous ivories
And all the golden grasshoppers and bees.
We too had many pretty toys when young:
A law indifferent to blame or praise,
To bribe or threat; habits that made old wrong
Melt down, as it were wax in the sun's rays;
Public opinion ripening for so long
We thought it would outlive all future days.
O what fine thought we had because we thought
That the worst rogues and rascals had died out.
All teeth were drawn, all ancient tricks unlearned,
And a great army but a showy thing;
What matter that no cannon had been turned
Into a ploughshare? Parliament and king
Thought that unless a little powder burned
The trumpeters might burst with trumpeting
And yet it lack all glory; and perchance
The guardsmen's drowsy chargers would not prance.
Now days are dragon-ridden, the nightmare
Rides upon sleep:  a drunken soldiery
Can leave the mother, murdered at her door,
To crawl in her own blood, and go scot-free;
The night can sweat with terror as before
We pieced our thoughts into philosophy,
And planned to bring the world under a rule,
Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.
He who can read the signs nor sink unmanned
Into the half-deceit of some intoxicant
From shallow wits; who knows no work can stand,
Whether health, wealth or peace of mind were spent
On master-work of intellect or hand,
No honour leave its mighty monument,
Has but one comfort left:  all triumph would
But break upon his ghostly solitude.
But is there any comfort to be found?
Man is in love and loves what vanishes,
What more is there to say? That country round
None dared admit, if Such a thought were his,
Incendiary or bigot could be found
To burn that stump on the Acropolis,
Or break in bits the famous ivories
Or traffic in the grasshoppers or bees.
When Loie Fuller's Chinese dancers enwound
A shining web, a floating ribbon of cloth,
It seemed that a dragon of air
Had fallen among dancers, had whirled them round
Or hurried them off on its own furious path;
So the platonic Year
Whirls out new right and wrong,
Whirls in the old instead;
All men are dancers and their tread
Goes to the barbarous clangour of a gong.
Some moralist or mythological poet
Compares the solitary soul to a swan;
I am satisfied with that,
Satisfied if a troubled mirror show it,
Before that brief gleam of its life be gone,
An image of its state;
The wings half spread for flight,
The breast ****** out in pride
Whether to play, or to ride
Those winds that clamour of approaching night.
A man in his own secret meditation
Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made
In art or politics;
Some platonist affirms that in the station
Where we should cast off body and trade
The ancient habit sticks,
And that if our works could
But vanish with our breath
That were a lucky death,
For triumph can but mar our solitude.
The swan has leaped into the desolate heaven:
That image can bring wildness, bring a rage
To end all things, to end
What my laborious life imagined, even
The half-imagined, the half-written page;
O but we dreamed to mend
Whatever mischief seemed
To afflict mankind, but now
That winds of winter blow
Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.
We, who seven yeats ago
Talked of honour and of truth,
Shriek with pleasure if we show
The weasel's twist, the weasel's tooth.
Come let us mock at the great
That had such burdens on the mind
And toiled so hard and late
To leave some monument behind,
Nor thought of the levelling wind.
Come let us mock at the wise;
With all those calendars whereon
They fixed old aching eyes,
They never saw how seasons run,
And now but gape at the sun.
Come let us mock at the good
That fancied goodness might be gay,
And sick of solitude
Might proclaim a holiday:
Wind shrieked -- and where are they?
Mock mockers after that
That would not lift a hand maybe
To help good, wise or great
To bar that foul storm out, for we
Traffic in mockery.
Violence upon the roads:  violence of horses;
Some few have handsome riders, are garlanded
On delicate sensitive ear or tossing mane,
But wearied running round and round in their courses
All break and vanish, and evil gathers head:
Herodias' daughters have returned again,
A sudden blast of dusty wind and after
Thunder of feet, tumult of images,
Their purpose in the labyrinth of the wind;
And should some crazy hand dare touch a daughter
All turn with amorous cries, or angry cries,
According to the wind, for all are blind.
But now wind drops, dust settles; thereupon
There lurches past, his great eyes without thought
Under the shadow of stupid straw-pale locks,
That insolent fiend Robert Artisson
To whom the love-lorn Lady Kyteler brought
Bronzed peacock feathers, red combs of her *****.

— The End —