Sha 6d

I opened my box,
Turned the knob,
Hand and feet on position
And danced to the music.

Sometimes, the music is joyous.
Sometimes, it is melancholic.

I am waiting for the day
When I don't have to turn the knob
To hear music.

And I am waiting for the day
I finally outgrow my enclosure.

I Barker Sep 15

Your age doesn't represent your maturity
And it doesn't have to.
Act as young or as old as you please.
Just know when to grow up

Sha Sep 4

I saw someone fall in love again.
Said his heart danced
to a different beats-per-minute than before.
It smelled of pressed jasmine and maturity
compared to cotton candy kisses and butterfly wings.

I asked why does he keep comparing?

He said
The first love's immaturity is a gate
To the next one's finesse.

Glenn Currier Aug 13

I am advanced in years
but living many years
does not make me either wise or mature
does not make me advanced
as a person, as a man.

I have known some old fools
and in some ways
(I hate to say it)
sometimes I am one.

I would rather escape
(and I can think of so many ways to do so)
than to live in pain
(my own or someone else’s)
but that is what life is.
Yes, it is true:

Life IS difficult.

Accepting that is one of the hardest things to do.
But it is what real maturity is.
Being down from hurt, pain, and wounds
and just standing up and walking anyway.

I see bumper stickers and signs that say:
“Wounded warrior”
The people who I know
who are the walking wounded
are the beautiful people.
They carry their pain with a crooked, sad smile
as if to say:
"Yes, life is a bitch,
but here I am walking through it.
Not so much getting over it
as getting through it.
And Baby, here I am, I am getting through it.
I’m still standing.
I might be limping,
but by God, I’m walking.
I’m walking into today and tomorrow.
And that’s something."

I’ve heard it said:
“Faith is simply to trust the real
and to trust that God is found within it.”
When I have this kind of faith
I’m being mature.
I’d rather be advanced in that way
than to simply be advanced in years.

“Maturity,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier

I'm not sure this is a poem.  But I woke up way too early this morning after a dream and I knew I had to write something.  No rhymes, no meter... just me before dawn this Sunday morning.  Thanks for reading.
dani evelyn Aug 12

cutting your hair
and packing your bags,
it’s drinking champagne
in your best pair of jeans.
growing out bangs,
unbuttoning shirts –
to think yours had been closed up to the
throat, all these years –
and everything, all white.
sunburned noses
and no makeup, it’s
less backward glances
and more plans
for the future.
it’s holding a conversation
and making eye contact,
it’s meeting a man
and letting your feet
grow roots.
more music, less running,
more danger, and more safety,
and it’s
finally, having a taste
for the classics.

I am just
A SOBER Failure.
My wife is happy
That I filed for divorce.
If I want some sex
I think I would need
To go visit a hooker,
But none of them
Are worth a dime to me.
I don't have any
Destructive Addictions
Even my anti-inflammatory" diet
Is being monitored by a Naturopathic Doctor
And is under control.
If I want to be popular,
I'd probably need  to
Go a little bit crazy,
But most  people don't pay much attention
To a crazy old man.

drljms Jul 30

In the middle of winter,
a boy played in a field of snow.
He built a snowman, made snowballs
with delight on his face.
He did everything he can
to savor it as it lasts.
For he knows that
winter will go, snowfall will stop.

He came across a train track,
in a cold, abandoned station.
Arms spread wide,
he walked on the trails.
He fell and fell,
but it never stopped
his willpower to see
the end of what he started.

As he reached a certain point,
the track split into two.
One, with animals and plants blooming,
and the other, with pure snow falling.

He wanted more snow,
and decided to journey the latter.
However, a sudden urge
demanded to be noticed.
He felt cold, in need of warmth.

The boy, satisfied,
walked his chosen path.
A thought suddenly entered his mind,
“Too much snow is bad,” he uttered.
“It’s playtime with spring now.”

Inspired by 'Spring Day' MV by BTS lol
Em MacKenzie Jul 29

Every year I get older,
always marked by the same date,
but this year I'm feeling colder,
lacking heat even with my hate.

Every year I get older,
I'll be dead in years by this rate,
and there's so much weight on each shoulder,
have I just shown up to life too late?

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to,
we've got no social games, so what else would I do?
It's my party and I'll die if I want to,
"It's all downhill from here" oh god, was that true.

You know it's just my mannerism,
to have an annual aneurysm.
You know I was never one for optimism,
so here's my annual aneurysm.

Every year I get older,
that's just humans fault and fate,
and we all get bitter and bolder,
well, maybe that's up for debate.

You know it's just my mannerism,
to have an annual aneurysm.
I was never good at criticism,
so here's my annual aneurysm.

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to,
tears change my eyes from green to blue.
It's my party and I'll die if I want to,
just 'cause I'm growing doesn't mean that I grew.

Not looking forward to my upcoming birthday. Feelin' old.
Anne Molony Jul 28

white walls peppered with stickers
               concert tickets pinned to cork-boards
         fairly lights around a bed frame
   notes on mirrors
     "sort out folders"

there is a desk
coffee-stained in rings
camera sim card clusters
the "Italian phrase book and dictionary" lies open in dusty light
a bag of muesli

half-empty perfume bottles
a dream catcher
makeup brushes on the floor beside a
full length mirror

dirty converse in the corner
heeled brown boots
a night gown and slippers
hair ties dropped on carpet

ring binders piled on drawers
revision booklets
a guitar hanging on the wall (used often)
doodles of thin women in a leather journal

a poem book by the bed
secret notebooks under pillows
cigarettes hidden in pencil cases
french whiskey buried in the closet
behind a bag of barbies

what does the room tell you about the person who lives in it
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