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Tiffany Marie May 2013
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.
In creative writing we had to attempt to write a piece of spoken poetry.  This was my attempt.
Tiffany Marie May 2013
Poems are not always about sadness
or the heavy weight of the world.
Poems aren't always about the careless boy,
who broke a young girl's heart
that cold, snowy day.
So I refuse to fill anymore
lines and pages,
with the outline of your name.
I will not waste another
journal page,
on the waves of sadness
you pushed my way.
So I graze my pencil
over the light blue lines,
and try to write about the moon.
How it follows me as I gaze out my window,
but then I remember,
it follows you, too.

— The End —