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Jolene Perron Jul 2011
I’m looking in a mirror,
and this face I see,
Tall with dark features,
at the age of sixteen.

At the age of sixteen,
I have seen the world.
The people, the faces,
the boys and girls.

At the age of sixteen,
I haven’t been far from home.
But I’ve made some friends,
and I’m not alone.

At the age of sixteen,
I’m aware what’s right.
What’s wrong in this world,
the hate and the strife.

But at the age of sixteen,
what confuses me still.
Is how you have children,
on your own free will.

But don’t care for them,
and spread your charade to we.
But I see behind the curtains,
And I’m only sixteen.

I’m only sixteen,
and I see what you do.
I’m behind the acts,
I’m standing beside you.

I’m screaming in your ears,
“Oh, don’t you see?!
The mess you’ve made?”
And I’m only sixteen.

I’m only sixteen,
I manage a life.
I have two jobs,
I am not a wife.

But I am sixteen,
and for a while back there.
I saw your kids more,
and gave them more care.

I am only sixteen,
I will be seventeen soon.
But I’m not stupid,
and I see what you do.
Sofia Paderes Jun 2012
Sixteen reasons

To wonder why

Sixteen seasons

That lived and died.

Sixteen seas

And sixteen skies

Sixteen matches

With sixteen tries.

The pearl-and-gold

That hugs the candle,

Is a promise of purity

That will not be broken

Until the time comes

For the pearl-and-gold

To be replaced

With gold-and-diamond.

Sixteen dreams

That want to take flight,

But not yet.

It’s not time.

I’m only sixteen.
At sixteen life ain't so bad.
There are some things I wish that I had,
like the experience of learning how to drive with Dad.
At sixteen life passes by too fast.
But luckily I have the love of a mother,
to keep me from thinking about my past.
At sixteen my head is in the clouds.
I dream about my future,
and who I'll be.
I write about true love,
and my own life's story.
I stay out late with a boy,
and don't care much for old toys.
At sixteen I don't claim to be perfect.
In fact I'm probably far from worth it.
I slack on chores,
and slam open doors.
I sing too loud,
my feet on the dashboard.
I've missed church on Sundays,
cause' sleeping in's what counts.
Lord knows grandma ain't too proud!
At sixteen there's so much I've done.
Stealing that boy's heart,
was just a start.
Kissing in the pouring rain,
even when I didn't feel any pain.
Whether it be,
living on quotes or writing poetry.
There's still so much this girl hasn't seen.
High heels and short skirts,
make-up and tight shirts.
On those days when I wanna look good.
Converse and skinny jeans,
ain't it funny how girls can be so mean...
At sixteen there's so much I want to do.
Like watching a sun set in his arms,
and seeing it rise on a distant shore.
Or riding the Dragster at Cedar Point,
without a fear of heights or falling out.
I wanna be a ride warrior at sixteen.
Then again...
At sixteen maybe I just want to be me!
R B M Oct 2019
Sixteen is safe.
Count to sixteen
To simply refresh.

Sixteen is safe.
Count to sixteen, sixteen times in a row
To calm down.

Sixteen is safe.
Count to sixteen, sixteen times in a row, sixteen times a day
To stay sane.

Six is wrong.
Six is dangerous.
Don’t interrupt at six.

Sixteen is safe.
I restart everyday.
First one when I wake up.

z Jan 2016
Sixteen songs have passed
And sixteen separate landscapes to wipe your hands with
And as I dream at night do I consider it
That a part of this doing is my half

Sixteen songs later
Sixteen quiet throats, yet I keep my mouth shut
And I shamelessly enjoy the gifts you give me
When we go to bed before I dream

Our love is in latin, it won’t last

Sixteen exhilarating chases, games, ever-expanding radii
Like irises on a road map, we flower through the countryside
We are an aneurism, we yell at walls, and we laugh
Sixteen family tree autographs

Sixteen sad songs, suicides, sixteen songs you keep on tape
Their last words bent into screams like pictures on TV
My dreams have become my trial
Seventeen’s my last
insomniatrical Feb 2017
I turned sixteen yesterday,
And the day filled me with dread.
From my father and my mother,
I wished that I was dead.

I turned sixteen yesterday,
And my parents made a fuss.
Although I was sad,
I gave them my trust.

I turned sixteen yesterday,
And they tried to give me everything.
Grateful I am, hateful I won't be,
But the only thing I wished for was his arms around me.

I turned sixteen yesterday,
And I breathe a new breath.
The life that once engulfed me
Has now become death.

I turned sixteen yesterday,
And I miss him so much.
Happy as I tried to be,
I still longed for his touch.

And I am sixteen today,
He would have been, too,
But death came and took him,
Too many years, too soon.

You should have been sixteen,
But young you will stay.
My love for you will never die,
We'll meet again one day.
Nadrah Dec 2013
She was only sixteen,

Yet her mind wandered about the galaxies like no other beings can do. She recognized every little details on the fireballs and the faraway stars when no other beings can. She carved the rocks and shaped them like the stars of the milky way. With different kind of hues coloured the atmosphere, she breathed in them all.
She danced her way around Jupiter and hopped on the rings of Saturn and danced like it was her first dance with her groom on her wedding day. She shined like how any other stars would shine. With all her might she pushed herself back to earth like a falling star.And just at the balcony of the house on the corner of that street,
                  a little boy wished upon her.
He wished upon a wishing star. He looked up to her. He told her his worries.

She was only sixteen,

but her heart felt every little emotions any hearts can and can't feel. She felt things that could forever scar her heart. She felt despair,rage,embarrassed,annoyed,betrayed,hurt,
                 ­      but also she was inspired,she felt joy,proud,strong and she loved.
The miseries she felt upon being neglect, she dig a hole and found a little dusty emotion in the corner of her heart....hope. She hold onto it,treat it like a child and there faith came up to her and fall in love with hope. She's stronger than any other beings can be as faith and hope unites.

She was only sixteen,

yet she shut her eyes and flee to Neverland with Peter Pan.
                             "Give me your hands" he whispered.
           "The second star to the right,and straight 'till morning" he said. He held her hands and off they went with fairy dusts from Tinker Bell stuck on their icy cold lashes.
To join him and the lost boys.
To be the first lost girl.
To never grow up as the world gets more beastly by minutes.
To forever have a childlike mind and a childlike body.
To escape from the harsh reality and enter the world of immortality where fairies and wisps flew by like it's a normal day for grocery shopping.

She was only sixteen,

but she had hurdled through life with things that the beings in The Wizard of Oz lacks. She tricked manipulators with her wisdom,she showed her betrayers how huge of a heart she has.
She forgives,
       She forgets.
She braved herself through all the horrendous obstacles she had to face. Life hit her,hard and just when she got up it kicked her in the stomach and let her bleed. But she saw things differently. She accepted the kick and let all the negativity in her lungs escaped and let all the positive vibes entered her.
With hands as small as an elf's,she opened it and let everything get caught in her hands. Like the net of a fisherman,not everything great gets trapped. But when he's blessed with a huge fortune,big fishes came to him.
           The thorns,the sadness,the euphoria...
She accepted everything and smiled. "Thank you" she said everytime.

She was only sixteen,

but she's already a beautiful aurora herself.
-writings for a precious friend-
“kitty”. sixteen,5′ 11″,white,*******.

ducking always the touch of must and shall,
whose slippery body is Death’s littlest pal,

skilled in quick softness.  Unspontaneous.  cute,

the signal perfume of whose unrepute
focusses in the sweet slow animal
bottomless eyes importantly banal,

Kitty. a *****. Sixteen
                            you corking brute
amused from time to time by clever drolls
fearsomely who do keep their sunday flower.
The babybreasted broad “kitty” twice eight

—beer nothing,the lady’ll have a whiskey-sour—

whose least amazing smile is the most great
common divisor of unequal souls.
Ellie Stelter Nov 2011
Sixteen is the age everyone always wanted to be.
Sixteen is rebellious, a freshly sparked fire,
A girl and a boy, living forever in the midnight hours.
Sixteen is freedom. Is dancing. Is music. Is life.
Is when you're supposed to be fully you, as best as you can.
Is the year your lips are round and red as apples,
The year your skin and hair is soft and smooth again,
The year your eyes still flash like two great and ancient stars.
At sixteen, I always thought, I'll cup the world in my hands;
At sixteen, finally someone will love me, finally that star will fall,
Finally, finally, I'll be free.

The world's supposed to end couple months after I turn sixteen.
I guess it won't be able to handle me all grown up like that.
But how the hell did the Mayans know?
Danielle Hoskins Nov 2013
The poem starts now.

I'm sixteen and I've had a fake I.D since the 8th grade, but please don't judge me just know all of my nights have ended great but when I wake up it's the process of forgetting what I don't wanna remember.
I'm sixteen and I am not Mary.
I said
I'm sixteen and I've poured my heart out in mostly all of my poems, I've admitted to having *** with boys just so I could feel like I was something not just a chunk of unneeded space.
My best friend used to tell me that she always keeps an extra pregnancy test just in case she feels pregnant again.... Yes she said again.... She's only sixteen.. And after that last abortion you would think she would have stopped having *** with twenty year old boys who tell her she's ****. My best friend is only sixteen.
......We talked about making our Wills one day... Sometimes I feel like my time is coming... I'm only sixteen....

This is the ending of the poem...
Dr Strange May 2015
For sixteen years I wondered what it was like to have a father
For sixteen years I would stare at the stars wondering if one was even assigned me
For sixteen years I walked through the park only to see children laugh and play with their parents
For sixteen years...
I felt alone and confused
As I attempted to understand what it meant to be a man
I had no one to to call father and no one to look up to
While it seemed the rest of the world had everything I ever asked for
I would end up asking myself why did my father abandoned me
Why was he so enraged by my very existence he never showed his face to me
Why didn't he love me
I remember the day he walked through the front door
Full of so much joy I was, but angry
I took a quick glance at him wondering where had he been all this time
Why now did he decide to show himself
But still a part of me did not care
All that matter to me is that finally did
My head filled itself with so many questions of what it meant to be a man
But I was too afraid to ask them
Now I look back and think how naive I was
I was blinded from the truth by pure excitement
I mean I finally wasn't alone
But now I'm just angry by him existing
All he does is lie, cheat, and steal
Silly me for thinking he could save me
Now I just want him gone and for things to go back to the way they use to be
The way it was for sixteen years
Sixteen years of hell for me
But I still smiled because I had a mother who loved me
For sixteen years I lived without him and now...
Well now I can live without him for all eternity
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2014
written in her voice...

When did sixteen
lose its sheen,
become so complicated?

when did the monsoon season
of transposition from girl to woman
begin, and when does it end?

when can I make my electrons
do their magic at my bidding,
like making my mum,
see me as I see myself?

don't know the answers,
don't know what made this girl think,
these equations had solutions

and when did sixteen,
become so complicated?

do I ask too much to make this straight,
I am one of just a billion teen girls
            with the same name,
knowing this doesn't help me
solve my mysteries unique, makes it somewhat worse,
how, was being sixteen,
young, but not never old enough
always a balloon misdirection, free floating, so confusing?

when I close my eyes
hear my private poetry ghost
insisting, listening to what I can't confess, even
to my diary, so I tell an
electronic stranger

(which is crazy, dangerous)

leaves me somehow relieved,
it seems impossible but he reads me,
even sees me, in my words
sees, and just, listens with every-word-attention

now he sees me as I want to be seen,
and I wonder, is he for real,
touchable, human skin and bone?

living in my skyscraper city,
I am surrounded,
pegged in a place where
sadly, where there is no dusk,
the lights too bright and 24 on,
and pressures of all kinds..make me
desire simple low lights,
that have quiet country lanes...with clears signs, known destinations

no more life exams please
especially, those that for me, were chose,
please, no goals parentally prescreened,
all, the nice and the mean,
let them meet me with pleasured randomness

so I can decide what seventeen will bring

my poem ghost sees me
far away, in other cities,
where my spirit
may have  lived once before,
in other bodies, other times,
where I heard the walls exclaim,
where once I prayed for sun
instead, brought thunderstorms,
monsoons of a different kind...
even with their knowledge past and forethought,
still I don't understand

when did sixteen,
lose its sheen, rain,
become so complicated?

algebra insufficient,
calculus trajectories,
don't intersect and
the future fortune tellers
seem to have better answers,
ones I like, they,
even tell me questions
didn't know to ask

what am I good at?

when will I be certain of
the difference tween love and  
sixteen emotional contusions that
bruise but don't scar?

when will my body speak,
informing me this trial of
the growing pain is over, done?

all these complications,
none that I chose,
do not patronize,
they are hard,
all I seek is the simplicity,
not the sympathy,
of knowing
when will
come the resolutions?

*when I turn seventeen?
AvengingPoet Sep 2014
Sixteen pieces of news take the zeitgeist
Belligerence surrounding the torture
As we have all become the taken poacher

But we are all the writers of fiction
As we write pages upon pages
All in time

As sixteen pieces of news take the zeitgeist

But it is impossible to rid this of our bones
As the wind carries all our echoes
And the sixteen pieces of news are in a vacuum

Ideological take over
Coming between us
As we rid ourselves in two sides of the zeitgeist

As sixteen pieces of news take the zeitgeist

Nothing can survive within a vacuum
Until we placate the conflict brought forward
By the captains who continue to steer us wrong

We are lead by a calamitous force
With the power of a race horse
As we die in the wind of our echoes

As sixteen pieces of news take the zeitgeist
Charlotte Aug 2013
sixteen forever
craving nothing but
skin to skin
mind to mind
heart to heart
staring in your eyes
and seeing forever
seeing nothing but
the sun
craving everything you've never had before
and maybe will never have again
sixteen forever
tearing down your walls
burning all your bridges
and refusing to become what they want
nothing standing in your way
craving love and nothing more
no fear of the future
just fear of the night ending
because when you're sixteen forever
you feel infinity
and your heart smiles
through the tears
because nothing can stand in your way
nothing can hurt you for more than a moment
because you're brave and you're young
and you're free
close your eyes and remember
when you were sixteen forever
your heart is open
your eyes are wide
your light is blinding
and unstoppable
forever is real
forever is now
forever is in your reach
and you take it
i want to be
sixteen forever.
Loser Dec 2018
I wore my fathers shoes to a funeral today.

It took me sixteen years to get to a point where I could walk in them and truly say that they were a perfect fit.

It took me sixteen years to get to a point where I finally understood the senselessness  of death and the preciousness of life

It took me sixteen years to feel the gravity of death wrapping around my blissful yet ignorant heart, pulling me down to the knowledge of reality.

It took me sixteen years to not just know, but comprehend the fact that my time will pass me.

It took me sixteen years to learn all of these lessons, and now that I have I can start to live a life.
heather leather Sep 2015
my fingers are bleeding from writing words that i never
meant and my throat is sore from the words that i never spoke
and nothing ever seems to take up any space my mind is now
just a landscape of thoughts i never wanted to think and
flowers that seem to always wilt
if i were to count the scars that line my body,
that number would be sixteen
sixteen years of being misunderstood sixteen
years of not knowing the difference between bad
and good sixteen packs of cigarettes in sixteen
different months i turned sixteen last week
and a storm called insecurity was by my side
and it continues to rain
the cord from the phone hangs aimlessly and the kitchen
sink overflows with water that i should turn off
but there are a number of things that i should do that i
don't there are a number of things that should haunt me
but instead they choke me into believing i am okay when
i never am and i do not know if i prefer burning alive
or drowning anymore i do not know if i prefer the
suffocating sound of silence or the deathly drum of your
voice in my head anymore because either way i am
a basket case and i try to run away from things i cannot escape
so i let anxiety swallow me whole and find consolation
in being semi automatic  

semi automatic by twenty one pilots
You walk back into my life
suddenly I'm sixteen again
and you're my whole world
you can't be
I have a boyfriend
you have a girlfriend
this can't be the end
of our french film
where we finally find
each other
we missed so many moments
poor timing
poor judgment
always something in our way
Steve sleeping in the room
you have a new girlfriend
we missed
isn't it too late now?
three years later.
I'm sixteen again
and afraid I'll love you again
afraid you'll hurt me again
when I know you're leaving
the province
there will be ocean between us
this time
will I regret you
regret doing what I have yet to do
or regret doing what I never did
you were always my melody
and I your muse
you left and took my music with you
and you just keep playing our song
suddenly sixteen again
and you're singing just for me
Safe and sound in phone lines
but here I am now
lying in another guys bed
thinking of us.
We were wrong
we were sixteen and stupid
we'll never make it to that place
and my guitar needs new strings.
A May 2019
once i was sixteen.
now i am seventeen.
i saw the word through a wild child's eyes.
not free.
but so carelessly free
i didn't care to be caught.
in those sixteen years
i learned that this world is a dangerous game.
no matter how you play.
let me live,
i would say
i played it dangerously safe.
i took risks.
many of them.
maybe too many.
but i made it so
everything in the end,
would be as it was
before the risk was took.
this was supposed to be a poem about being sixteen
but last year for me,
was all about risk taking.
how dangerously **** life really was.
and if you experienced it right.
you're most likely wondering what all these risks were.
what an innocent,
little sixteen year old girl
could be getting herself into at her age.
Belle Victoria May 2015
I could write a story about my life
how everything went wrong in december
the day that I turned sixteen

my old world closed and a new one opend
a world filled with drugs, alcohol and good music
it was a time of badboys, overthinking and heartbreaks
it went on with wearing too much make-up and crazy hair colors

first I was scared for all these things
my world was changing and so was I
but after a while I got used to it, it began to feel like home
a place where I could be myself, filled with lovely broken people

when I was sixteen I met this girl
she was a bit like me but different
she had something special..
maybe it was her smile

I always was surounded by demons, everyone could see it
but this girl really was an angel, she was the light in the sky

so maybe I shouldn't write a story about myself this time

I should write a story about you
how you make me crazy and confused
how annoying you can be sometimes
but more important about
how much you mean to me
how you make me feel special

but it always made me feel like falling
it should have made me feel like flying

oh sweet sixteen you were so bad for me.
and maybe I did loved you from the start, I just never told you.
Abby Orbeta Dec 2014
Being raised in a hetero-normative environment, everything was divided into binary. There was no middle ground. Right and Wrong. Black and White. Male and Female. Gay and Lesbian.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five. You were five years old when you first learned the difference between boys and girls. You felt that everything would be so much better if you were a boy. You’d be allowed to run and play and bike as much as you can. You didn’t have to wear itchy dresses or keep your hair braided in place or your face and clothes clean and dirt-free at all times. You refused to wear all the girly dresses and you asked your mom if you could cut your hair short. When she didn’t allow you, you took matters into your own hands and cut your well-constructed plait using craft scissors. They were all horrified, but couldn’t do anything. You suffered 20 belt lashes for your tiny act of rebellion but it was so worth it.

Six, Seven, Eight. You were eight when you began to blossom. Your ******* started growing and your curves begin to form, so you hid them like a shameful secret you wanted to erase. You kept your hair short, your demeanor brash and your clothes baggy. People started calling you “tomboy”. The label didn’t sting. It gave you a sense of pride, it afforded you the acceptance you’ve always wanted.

Nine. You were nine when you first felt attracted to a boy. He was your best friend’s older brother. He was dreamy. He looked like the boys you thought were attractive in Ang TV. But he never noticed you. He only notices the girly girls. You were a girl. Not girly, but still a girl. A different kind of girl. You see nothing wrong with being the way that you are, but you begin to wonder, “is there?”

Ten.  You’re still known as the “tomboy”. It still doesn’t bother you. You go on with your life. Now, you play for your grade’s co-ed soccer team. There is one boy in your class that you’ve been eyeing since September. He was a god. He sported blonde hair that looked like Devon Sawa’s, emerald green eyes that pierce through your soul, he was the smartest kid in class, and you play soccer together. One afternoon, you score the goal that wins the game. The boy with blonde hair and green eyes you’ve been eyeing since September, tackles you to the ground in much delight. He kisses you on the lips for the first time, you were stunned at the gesture. You liked it. Very much. A week later, he begins to call you his girlfriend, but his friends bullied him and called him a ****** for liking someone like you. As the kisses and hugs became more frequent, so did the bullying. Not long after, you broke up.

Ten point five. She enters your life at ten and a half. She had long dark hair and icy grey eyes framed by long thick lashes. Her smile lights up the room and she makes you laugh really hard. She was the first girl you ever held hands with. Her hands were warm and comforting. Her hands entwined with yours made you all tingly inside. You held hands in the library while reading Tiger Beat. You held hands behind the swing during recess. You held hands while walking home to your apartment complex. One afternoon she kisses you on the lips when you get to the door of your apartment building. You run up to your room in silence and lock yourself in for the entire night, confused. You started comparing. Why did her kiss feel better than his?

Almost eleven. You were almost eleven when your best friend’s older brother finally notices you. He notices how smooth your skin is when he grazes against it. How red your lips get when you lick them. He sneaks a peek when you’re changing in your best friend’s bedroom after soccer practice. He examines every curve of your body from your cinched waist that emphasizes your supple ******* to your shapely hips that remind him of hills that have been put on their sides. He examines and memorizes every detail of your body in secret.

Eleven. Your best friend’s older brother catches you and your best friend holding hands and kissing while playing video games. He doesn’t say anything. He did not breathe a word of this to anyone. Not even a soul.

Eleven. He corners you one summer afternoon while you’re waiting for your best friend to come home. He places his hand over your mouth and whispers for you to keep quiet. He uses his strength to pin you down, you fight and fight. You try to scream. No one can hear you. No one is home. He tells you that this is for your own good. This is what is right. He shatters you. He broke you in. He did not stop until you were tamed.

Eleven and a half. You stopped going to your best friend’s house. Your future became bleak.

Twelve, Fourteen, Sixteen. Twelve. Fourteen. Sixteen. Twelve. Fourteen. Sixteen. History repeats itself. The actors are just different. Still, no one can hear your stifled screams. You feel your soul dying. Every. Single. Time.

Sixteen, Seventeen. You decide that you just don’t care anymore. Nothing matters. You don’t matter. You try to end it all. Then she comes along to rescue you. She loves you for who you are and who you want to be. You begin to pick up the pieces. You fall in love with her. Everything is still kept in secret.

Eighteen. Your worldview has changed significantly. You’re now wiser and braver. You walk hand in hand with her in public and you even allow a bit of PDA. You don’t care about the ***** looks you get from everyone else. You slowly begin to feel accepted, yet you are still somewhat hidden.

Nineteen, Twenty, Twenty – one. You fall in love with a man, a woman, a gay man, an extremely straight woman, another man, and the list goes on and on. The whole world admonishes you and tells you to “PICK A SIDE”. Just pick one.  You can’t love both men and women. People start calling you names. Puta. Haliparot. ****. *****. ***** seems to be the crowd favorite.

Twenty – three. Names hurt. Names stick. Labels bother you. Not because you’re not proud for being who you are, but because nothing fits. Nothing feels right. You feel like you’re five again with your well - constructed plait and your craft scissors. You take matters into your own hands. You begin to take charge of your life.

Twenty – five. You’ve finally realized that gender does not matter to you when it comes to love. Love is love. You just have so much of it to give. You find peace even when people don’t understand.

Twenty – seven.  Being raised in a hetero-normative environment, everything was divided into binary. There was no middle ground. Right and Wrong. Black and White. Male and Female. Gay and Lesbian.  You still don’t adhere to any labels. You’re proud that you fall between the cracks. You see, the color - spectrum is wide and bright, but you, you’re just proud to be grey.
your girl b Aug 2015
She has sixteen cents and a bottle of coke.
Walking home from Grandma’s in boots and shorts
Her hat hangs low and her mouth is cold
She has sixteen cents and a bottle of coke.
The wind screams loud and the summer gets cold
Her days are young but they seem so old
She has sixteen cents and a bottle of coke.
She walks up to the trees whose leaves are orange and red
Her eyes get black.
She has found a place to lay her head.
She had sixteen cents and a bottle of coke.
A young girl tries drugs for the first time. She got addicted and couldn't get any money to get more. She went to her Grandma's house to look for change but only found sixteen cents. This made her really mad so she murdered her Grandma and started to walk home.
Michael Hunter Dec 2012
When I found my Dad, he was sitting at the kitchen table,
hands palms up in his lap, with a look of peaceful release on his face.
I’d expected to find him in the living room, enthroned in his easy chair,
a crossword puzzle open in his lap, pencil in hand, his balding head encircled by his ever-present halo of dust.

I actually jumped when I turned the corner and saw him there.
I thought they said he was dead!
No, this can’t be, he’s only resting, he looks too alive!
But no, he’d gone. He’d left us all behind to deal with life without him. What was I to do?
He’s too important, and ****** Dad! We never got to really talk. O Dad!

I dropped to my knees and put my forehead on his knee – stiff with his leaving,
and felt my fear begin to rise from deep down inside.
Where have you gone, my father?  Where?
So many questions – we’re all talking over one another – each demanding my undivided attention, but all I could do
was look at his hands,
up to his face,
and back to his hands.

Suddenly I knew – better than anything worth knowing – that I was alone and had allowed time, apathy, selfishness, and guilt rob me of my chance to have not just a father, but a friend.

God ******! ****** ****** ******!

I was suddenly angry, then despairing, then angry once more.
Angry at him for leaving.
Angry at those who hurt him bad enough for him to hate faith an anything spiritual.
It wasn’t their right. How could they have done this to this wonderful man?
How could someone have the gall and the bile to point sanctimonious fingers at a man so gentle and kind, and rob me of that connection?

I was brought back to reality by the police officer asking me to call the mortuary.
Who calls the mortuary for their father?!
Well, apparently their children do,
so I stood to make the call.

The somber-suited undertakers arrived, and with practiced ease, began their preparations.
First the stretcher, then the thick, heavy plastic of a body bag – silver zipper glistening like an eager snake.

Then they began to divest my father of the things that made him him:
Watch and rings,
and finally his pockets: he had two Swiss army knives, his ever-present Chapstick, three nickels, and finally, a penny.

Sixteen cents.
The most generous man I’d ever known, and the one to whom we could always turn,
was being taken away from us forever,
and I was left with some personal effects,
three silver nickels,
and one penny.
Sixteen cents.

F­ive years later, and I have them still.

© 2012 Michael Hunter
i get it
i am only sixteen
i know
i have so much more to experience
how many times
do you have to tell me my age
trust that i understand
the concept of time
and how i've passed through it
to get to this wonderful number

so now that we have covered that...
explain how that makes me any less than you
how it makes my opinions invalid
in your eyes
my experiences just exaggerations
my feelings just a side effect of hormones
just because i am sixteen

i'm tired of being
passed on
pushed away
looked past
walked over
put down
locked up
cut off
just because i am sixteen

i am sixteen
for now
but that doesn't mean my thoughts don't matter
actually never mind
me trying to explain my "complicated emotions"
is fulfilling your preconceptions of me
just because i am sixteen
Kripi Jun 2013
I wish you the sweet sixteen
You are now a growing teen

This world is full of shadows and shines
Hope that you'll get all the sweet wines

I remember those days
When we were so crazy
We were lazy
Still we are...
Yea!..We were along in every case
We will be along
As much as long

Oh My dear! don't think ever
That i am clever
Don't think ever
That you are alone
You will soon get a phone
Just talk with me
I know that you are keen

I wish you the sweet sixteen
You are now a growing teen

Don't get upset ever
I am with you forever

I wish you the sweet sixteen
You are now a growing teen
Today is The seventeenth birthday of my elder sister {3 months elder only...:-P}
Hope that she would like my gift!....
Yenson Jul 2018
A while ago in East London, in an area called Poplar
a black man lived with his wife
Quiet, hardworking, law-abiding they both were.
never courted a scandal, never committed a crime
Just went about their business, working for  better tomorrows

Then next door a Scottish family of five moved in
and immediately started borrowing from couple next door
Do you have sugar, do you have bread, can I borrow a fiver
till our Giro arrives next week, please another tenner for Jim
He has to pay a fine.

Empty beer cans littered their doorway, they all drank like fish
fights and arguments rang late into the night
Police visited twice, thrice weekly and it was known Jim burgled.
and was always doing time, when not drunk and fighting
Joan eldest girl was pregnant at sixteen and Tom fourteen had
done two stretches in juvenile detention
Last daughter Kelly was also to end up in the duff at sixteen

Amounts borrowed was now sizable, the odd fiver repaid
stolen items regularly offered and rejected by quiet couple next door
Invites to the black man to visit while Jim in jail politely declined
Come and have a drink with me and my young daughters
No thanks, got to go and cook, my Mrs would be returning soon.

The family from hell has turned the neighborhood to hell
constant break-ins all around
strange men coming and going, fights and noise, beer cans
for carpets, stairwells reeking of ****, Tom and friends and
Marijuana fumes graced the stairs and veranda.
Mrs Scottish and two young daughters constant smiling invitations
to black man next door, duly always deftly rejected.

Black man and Mrs decided to stop lending money
it was all going on beer and smoke and never paid back
By the end of the week, their car had been vandalized and four
wheels removed, racist leaflets started appearing on veranda.
No more smiling coyly invites, now just loud music and loud
intermittent bangs on walls from next door.
We must complain, we most report all this to the Landlords.
No, lets just ignore them, not worth the hassle.

Then it happened, black man arrives home one afternoon
and finds his front door ajar, they had been burgled.
Seething with anger he stormed next door to be met by Mrs S
'you ******* thieves have robbed me, how can you be so low,
after all we've done to try and help you. None of you work, You are a bunch of lazy
workshy, welfare scroungers, you are pathetic lowlife. why don't you go and get a job instead of burgling houses and getting drunk all day long
I will start a petition to move you away from the neighborhood.
You no-good non working class scums'  a disgrace and an affront to the hardworking working classes. You ******* racist bullies, I will show you, you can't
mess with me'

Mrs S smiled wickedly and said, you will see
'character assassination, public humiliation, we'll ruin your life and you'd wish you are dead by the time we finish with you and your chicken legs wife. I will show you who runs the manor in East London.'
You can't do that, black man replied, I have done nothing wrong, you are the bare-faced thieves, you shameless woman. We have had enough of you and your anti-social behaviour. You are not going to mess with us no more!

OH, YES! they can and by jove, they did.
Mrs S retorted' You are the foreigner here, you are the one that would be leaving the country
and going back to your Jungle'.
Black man called wife to tell her, she came home immediately
the police came, no evidence, here's a crime report, get your door
fixed. How about searching next door, we can't, no witnesses.
And then Black man's life changed FOREVER.

Should I write about the intimidation from other white families
in the neighborhood, should I write about how the Local Socialist
Party got involved, and launched a propaganda campaign about a black Conservative member dissing the Working Classes,  should I write about how one of his beloved dogs was
killed, should I write about a rumour campaign that black man was a wife-beater, a ****, a con man, a greedy parasite, should I write about sudden hostilities and bullying at his work place, how his wife was also sacked, about being randomly insulted and abused in the streets, about kids spitting on him, about being shunned inexplicably by locals
he's known for years. Should I write about outrageous fabrication, smears and humiliation.
Should I write about political victimization, about the black man 'who thinks he is better than us all,' about how a wedge was driven between him and his wife, till she broke and upped and left without warning,
should I write about how strangers shouted 'solidarity with the working Class' at him, should I write about daily torments and constant harassment everywhere he goes, should I write about Criminal gang stalking,
should I write about being informed they were going to ruin his career, ruin his marriage and ruin his reputation, check, all done. S I write about how they said they were going to chuck mud at him everywhere he went and blacken his name forever, should i write about pure isolation, about being made a target and being  hounded and stalked and disrespected everywhere. Should I write about how they stated they were going to drive him insane and drive him to suicide.

Just  know that somewhere in London, a decent, law-abiding progressive, and innocent black man, is now on his own, broke, in debts and on Welfare benefits, unable to find a job, friendless and isolated, discredited and shunned.  He is still being stalked, harassed and hounded, round the clock. All for daring to stand up to CRIMINALS.

alessandra manco Jun 2014
it has been one year, eleven months, and four days since i last saw your face
since i watched your hand raise to your lips like a nun in silent prayer in a farewell
just for me
through the ***** window
as i held the folded up note in my hand like my heart that was drawn with the words i needed to explain to you that I was scared I would forget how to breathe with you gone
that i still needed you
and then you were gone, your body disappeared out sight
it has been one year, eleven months, and four days since you left
and now i have something to say
i was sixteen years old, and my eyes were bright
i was sixteen and the way you dragged your fingertips across my back as you walked by like mice scurrying across the floor made me feel more than i ever thought it was possible to feel
how naive of me
i was sixteen and when your rough lips grazed my ear like an animal stalking its prey my heart exploded for every single possibility that your words held
i was sixteen and every time my father struck me i could feel it reverberating through my bones because my tender mind hadn’t caught up with my aching body yet and i knew  i knew that you were wrong
but when you stroked my hair and kissed my fingertips and your hands grasped my waist like you were holding on for dear life the only truth i could hear above the frantic beating of my heart was that you wanted me
that you validated me
you weaved your hands between my ribs and slipped your fingers around my heart and when you left YOU RIPPED OUT MY HEART AND TOOK IT WITH YOU

i’m not sixteen anymore
and i spent one year, eleven months, and four days trying to make the pieces of my broken self fit together in the same way that they did before your eyes become the reason that i smiled every day
i’ve spent all this time trying to tell myself that it wasn’t my fault, wasn’t my fault, wasn’t my fault WASN’T MY FAULT
it has been one year, eleven months, and four days
I want my heart back
january 2014.
Written as spoken word.
how often does anyone go to sleep smiling?
i really want to smile more.
i feel fine.
i feel good.
watching you hang the sun every morning and
take it down and hide it at night,
summer's come and gone already.
its gone
again once more.
you wanna know one of the reasons
i know there's not a god?
there's plastic surgeons.
insecurity exists.
the city never lets me sleep
though i never really try.
sleep means nothing to me.
dreams mean nothing to me.
i express my sadness with anger
typical boy
i don't even know how to cry
there's times i know i am supposed
to be crying in front of someone
and can't no matter how hard i try.
even if i want to
even if i  need to
and i wonder if people think i'm heartless or
are they wise enough and experienced enough
to recognize that i am only a mad little boy and
thats why i don't cry like a little girl.
you ever cry for a long time and then finally are able to stop and breathe,
your tears dry and your eyes are puffy,
throat full of snot and it's hard to breathe?
that physically exhausted feeling you get,...
that's how my spirit feels all the ******* time.
plastic surgeons actually exist.
there's sad little sixteen year old girls
who get made fun of for having small *******
so her her parents pay for implants
and a doctor gladly takes their money
and gives the sixteen year old girl fake *******.
this kinda **** actually happens.
© 2013 Austin Stephenson
ejb Apr 2015
sixteen thoughts from my sixteenth birthday

1. you're more beautiful than the sky

2. you're the smartest person I know

3. you understand

4. you make me happier than anyone else on earth

5. ******* you are beautiful

6. you treat me like a queen

7. I'd treat you like one too

8. I'll treat you a million times better than some ******* ever could

9. all I want to do is hold you and make sure you're alright

10. you're amazing






tight silk ******* with the lilac bra to match,
cream coloured knee high socks.
a collection of classic rock on vinyl and a compliments jar covered in news articles.

too many celebrity perfumes, but a versace collection that makes her think of the beach;
peach smelling deoderant.

chapter books on the floor accompanied by hair ribbons of baby blue and cotton candy pink,
****** by Vladimir Nabokov laying near the juvinile pale legs of beautiful sixteen,
as she paints each toe nail red, pink, white.

almost naked body, remember her tight, fresh lace set
hair perfectly auburn, lips perfectly light coral
mouth slightly open
Led Zepplin playing.
hairspray and rose powder,
unlit vanilla candles and twilight scented creams
she smells faintly of Modern by Banana Repulic and her daddy's cigarettes.

silently waving, a flag of patriotism
the beautiful, elegant sixteen.

-part 1

Could It Be Sixteen Years Ago
Since You left me by myself
Can it be sixteen years ago since
you left me alone
How I miss you
we were meant to be as
one and
then all of a sudden the Lord
called you home and I was all
You were my best friend,
You always knew when I needed you the most
and when you died I left alone and cried myself
a sleep because I know there was no one
else meant for me.
Sixteen years have come and gone
and I miss you very much
I think of no one but you and me
and how once how happy we were to be.

I know that somehow you are looking and watching over me
from up above the heavenly skies and you tell me please to
dry my eyes and to live as happy as I can be
but this is impossible for me
because you are not by my side
the only thing left for me is to cry.

Dedicated to my late soul-mate
Donald S. Martino
Born October 31, 1934
Died November 4, 1995
Gone but never forgotten and always loved.
Chloe Nov 2017
I always find myself looking back at my life and being thankful that I'm not sixteen anymore.
I think about all of the drugs I was high on.
I think about all of the men that I let touch my body because I was so desperate to be loved.
I think about how mean and angry I was.
I was so desperate to fit society's idea of perfect.
There was no one on this earth that hated me more than myself.

I always find myself looking back on my life and wishing I was 16 again.
I think about all of the adventures I went on.
I think about all of the people that I let touch my heart because I was so desperate to love.
I was so happy and carefree.
I didn't care that I wasn't society's idea of perfect.
No one loved me more than I loved myself.

I think about all of the thing I would change if I was sixteen again.
I think about all of the things I wouldn't change if I was sixteen again.

I think about all of the things I know now,
And I wonder why I'm still struggling to change myself.
We are supposed to learn as we grow. Sometimes I feel like I haven't grown at all.
Jeff Gaines Mar 2018
OK Reader, I'm going to tell you a tale … with great trepidation. You see, this tale, well, it's kind of like telling someone that you've seen a UFO. They want to believe you, but … it's never really been proven scientifically. Not to mention the fact that most folks who believe in such things are often the tin-hat wearing types, written off as … lets be nice and call them “odd”. And, of course, the more you swear to it, the crazier you appear. It's an epic tale, spanning 30 years of my crazy life.

  But, It's a story I want to tell, because it happened to me. I can barely understand it myself, let alone explain it. So … I'm just going to launch into it and you take it any way you wish.

*  *  
Where Can You Be?

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

I'll search with gazes and I'll search with cars,
I'll search the cities and I'll search the stars, well …
I'm gonna find you, oh, wherever you are,
I'm gonna find you baby …  near or far, but …

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

I thought I'd found ya, but she wasn't you,
that girl she left alone and blue, well …
I know that's something that you'd never do,
your love has always been strong and true, but …

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

If you must settle for some other man
and deviate from our immortal plan, well …
I hope you realize I will understand
and I'll try and do the best that I can, but …

Where will I be?
Where will I be, my love?
Hoping the next life sees …
our destiny!

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

~Wednesday, April 1st, 1987
10:30 P.M.

  I was singing in a band back in those days and, as it happened, this was the last song I'd ever write for it. Just after this, as it does, it all came crashing down and the band was finished. But in those last days, they pondered this song, with great puzzlement. You see, it was unlike anything I'd brought them before. It wasn't rock … It wasn't a ballad … it wasn't even structured like a “normal” 80's rock song.
  No bridge, no solo, no loud grinding guitars, etc. It even had bits where I hummed, yes hummed, the melody, like a lullaby. As they read the lyrics and I described how it went, they all looked at me like I had three heads and asked where this had come from. It was nothing like anything I'd written before. I could only tell them when and where I'd written it, but had no explanation of what inspired it. It had just came to me, so I wrote it down. They didn't know what to make of it, or even what to do with it.

  One of them said it sounded like a late 70's or early 80's adult contemporary song or even in the vein of The Eagles. Another asked if it was about reincarnation … And I honestly, until that moment, hadn't thought of it that way, I didn't think like that at 24 … but then, one of them said it was “Haunting” …


  “Wow”, I thought, I'd never had anything I'd written described as that before. When I asked him what he meant by that, he told me that it was haunting to think that this poor guy is desperately seeking a girl, that may or may not even know that he exists … in a world with billions of people in it. To top that off, he fears that she may off and marry someone else if he doesn't find her in time.

  This, along with the suggestion of it being about reincarnation made me rethink and rewrite the song. Well, a few lines in the last verse and chorus anyways. It actually made the song flow better and seem more complete. In a way, it actually made the song make more sense … to me and them. Sadly, we never did anything with it. There wouldn't be time. Ha … Time … how ironic. Over 10 years later, came this …

For Someone I've Never Met

Please save a place for me,
deep inside your heart.
Always know that I think of you,
as we both practice our arts.

Our worlds are full of temptations,
so very hard to resist …
and the good Lord knows
we're both far from,
sixteen and never been kissed.

Wealthy men with jaws divine …
Temptresses with looks so fine …
Paths that lead our hearts away …
Paths that surely lead astray …

They'll lead us there every time.
They'll leave us there … so  unkind.
Our hearts must shine,
night and day.
Through any darkness … they'll light our way.

If you never touch my face …
If I never look into your eyes …
We'll always have the comfort of sharing
the same
big, blue sky.

If I never smell your hair …
If you never kiss my lips …
Always know the search for your smile
has launched a thousand ships.

So, I hope you save a place for me
in your heart so sweet and kind.
Please, save a place for me …
Heaven knows you've one in mine.

~Thursday, September 9th, 1999
9 A.M.

“For Someone I've Never Met ” poured out of me in the midst of another breakup from the second, and last, girl that I wanted to marry. That emotion, never found me again. I looked at it on my computer screen and smiled, seeing “Where Can You Be”, in my mind, on my tattered old note pad that I called my “Song Book”. The memory of me writing it while sitting in my Z-28, looking out over the Gulf of Mexico as a beautiful heat lighting storm sent bolts across the sky, came flooding back; as did the debate of reincarnation I'd had with my pals in the rehearsal room all those years before. Here I was, again, writing about “someone” that I sensed, for lack of a better term, was out there … somewhere.

  Well Reader, do you believe in reincarnation? I was never really certain, but, as you can see, I had twice written pieces to someone I wasn't completely sure existed. I had always “sensed” someone out there beginning with the period after I wrote “Where Can You Be?” and thereafter. So, there they were, each written after losing someone I was deeply in love with. Each came out of nowhere, as they usually do. By the time I was in my 40's, I began to think I was either imagining it all (a side effect of being a hopeless romantic) or that I had just somehow missed this person and our “moment”.

  And then …


There was a place.
There was a time …
There, I stood … still unknowing
and everything seemed fine.

But there in that place …
at that moment in time …
the moment I saw the eyes,
I'd never believed I'd find.

Well, what could I say?
What could I do?
In a world filled with billions …
and there … was a you.

I'd always known you were out there …
even written of something amiss.
I never, ever stopped looking for you …
because my heart always said you exist.

My breezy Fall became harshest Winter.
My crazy life left my health running out.
I'd resigned myself that our moment had passed …
but this moment … it removed all doubt.

Well, what could I say?
Tell me, what could I do?
There we stood, staring … alone … in a city of millions …
yes, there … there was a you.

Oh, that mistress fate, she is just so cruel.
Frustration, a curse to be mine.
   I'd searched for you my entire life …
but now … my clock … knows a limit of time.

You see, I would never venture a love with you,
while knowing I'd have to leave you … hurt and alone.
I could only admire from afar … stoic and aloof …
while turning my heart into stone.

Nothing I could ever say and nothing I could ever do …
But now, at long last … at least I finally knew.

There, you stood … green seas, gazing up … into skies of blue.
My long-awaited revelation … become sorrow-laced realization.
There really is … a you.

~August 12th, 2009

  Typical of my life-long Charlie Brown syndrome … After being told in 2005 that I had “the lungs of an eighty-year-old man” and that I had “Six to Ten years” to live, I made a conscious decision in that Doctor's parking lot that I could never have another girlfriend and that I must face this alone. I don't see woman as objects. They are glorious creatures that are here to be our partners and friends and to make our lives amazing. I could never, ever knowingly let a woman fall in love with me, all the while knowing I was going to die and leave her. It's not in me to do such a thing, lonely or not.

  Yes, I'm still alive, I'm stubborn like that. But, some days are better than others and my new doctors say that they don't give people “time limits” anymore … because of people like me. I can't afford the lung transplant. So, as Bono so aptly put in one of his songs: “The rich stay healthy, while the sick stay poor”. It is what it is … and like the energizer bunny, I'm still going. Good for me.

  In the moment that I met her, the morning that followed, and the amazing speed of our nexus over the next several months combined with a string of synchronicities (Coincidences? Did I mention that she too, was a poet and writer?) that not only came after I met her on the sidewalk in front of the publisher we shared, but in those pieces I had written before and in several after; I was pretty much convinced I had actually found her. I have NEVER experienced anything like this, or her, in my entire life.

  So, after all this time, here she was … and there wasn't a **** thing that I could do about it. Besides, she was much younger than I and it probably would never have worked anyways. ****, the universe is rotten sometimes, huh? Maybe, if I'm lucky, things will balance out better in the next life. I can only hope. But I'm reminded, worryingly so, of the **** The Alarm song: “Collide”:

“All of these thoughts pounding in my head …
with the words I've wrote, in the letters I've never sent.
The distance in our lives may change …
Times that you can never erase …
But will our worlds collide?
Will our worlds collide, the next time?”

  Only time will tell.

  “Colors”, and a few others, were written about/for her. But, I could never show them to her. I would never endanger my friendship with her. I just wanted to keep her in my life. That, and that alone, was the only motive I'd ever had with her. I looked forward to seeing her marry, hearing her stories of her three kid's adventures; Hubby, all greasy, working on the car in the driveway, rabbits in her garden at night, eating her precious organic veggies or even about her new curtains. Just to know that she was alive, happy and doing well. I found a solace in her voice I could never describe and I was completely content to just have her in my life and watch hers unfold. Only I could end up in this odd position.

  I feared that she might get weird-ed out because I'd never displayed any romantic inklings toward her, so, to suddenly read these might make her feel a bit, lets say: uncomfortable. Actually, I didn't write them with any romantic intentions, per se; I just did what I always do … write what comes out. Still, there's no denying that they come across romantic. Again, so, so Charlie Brown. (long sigh)
  It is what it is. I also have to ponder the fact that maybe all those Charlie Brown moments in my life were preparing me for this one big, painful one. That does makes sense … ******' Universe.


Well when you're Green, I'll be your Brown.
Like the earth that loves the flowers,
I'll will be your solid ground.

And I'll be your Azure, when you are Verdigris.
We'll be thee most beautiful ocean
that eyes have ever seen.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
Mixing all of the colors … I'll make everything alright.

Now when you're Blue, I'll be you're Red.
If something should make you wanna cry,
I will feel your pain instead.

And I'll be your Orange, whenever you are Pink.
We'll be thee most amazing sunset,
that the sky could ever ink.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
I'll mix all of your colors … and make everything alright.

Should you be Violet, I will be your Beige.
Like a sleepy moonlit desert,
pasteled in dunes and sage.

And when you're Grey, I will be your Rainbow.
We'll be thee most soothing rainstorm
the world has ever known.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
I'll mix all of your colors … yes, I'll make everything alright.

With love on my palette, painting a glorious sunrise …
I'll color all your mornings with a smile and brighten up your skies.
If you should find yourself in sorrow from someones hate or lies …
I'll take the stars down from the heavens … and paint them in your eyes.

So whenever you are Black, I will always be your White.
I'll mix all your colors with a promise … everything will be alright.

Yes, I'll mix all of your colors with a promise … Everything's gonna be alright.

~  Winter 2012

  I wrote this after she had rang me up one afternoon lamenting about her life at the moment, troubled that her latest novel hadn't done as well as she'd hoped and now she had to be waitressing to make ends meet. I tried my best to cheer her up and assured her that she was strong enough to handle anything and that she must keep chasing her dreams. I wrote it as a poem, but I can't help but notice it looks like a song, though I've never heard music for it. Those repeated verses look just like choruses to me.

  Earlier in the day, I had been looking at a booklet of paint swatches. I guess, up there on my roof looking at the Manhattan skyline, her sadness and me looking at all those colors melted together somehow and, as happens, out came this piece. Even this, became another synchronicity as she would name her next novel “Show Me All Your Colors”. I remember seeing it in the bookstore and looking straight up … shaking my head at the sky. Was this the universe telling me to show and tell her all this?

  Well, if it was, I stuck with my gut and kept it to myself. My God, if you only knew how many of these synchronicities there were between her and I. It simply boggles my mind. I wanted to call them “coincidences”, but there were just so **** many of them … Each so unique, they just couldn't be called that. I don't want to tell them all here, because like I said, the more you swear to it, the crazier you sound. And I'm sure your questioning my sanity by now, aren't you? (Smirk)

  OK, OK … this one is definitely romantic. I wrote it one night, drunk to the bejeezus. I'd done what we called “The Crosstown Crawl” with my pal Tristan and a gaggle of assorted waitresses we knew. This involved starting at Brass Monkey on the west side highway in the Gansevoort District and ending at my favorite hookah bar, Karma, on the Lower East Side … Drinking in, and often being “asked to leave” (Read: Kicked out of) every bar that took our interest as we walked (Read: staggered) west to east, staying below 14th St.

  On my way home from the city on the J train, I thought about all the phone conversations we'd had while I was on this train crossing the Williamsburg Bridge. Being drunk, I guess, I caught a bout of sadness that I'd never get to tell her any of this or even how I felt about it all. Before I hit my elevator, this piece was swimming in my head. It's about as mushy a piece as I've ever written … if not thee most! Not the norm for me, but this is, after all, a lot to keep pent up inside you. I wouldn't wish this predicament on anyone.

For My Little Red-Haired Girl …

You …

My Love.
My Queen.
This Shining Light in my eyes.

My Laughs.
My Dreams.
My Soft, Contented Sighs.

My *****.
My Lavender.
My Dew Covered Rose.

My Smile.
My Cinnamon.
The Joy in my heart … ever inspiring my prose.

My Best Friend.
My Co-Star.
My Fearless Partner in Crime.

My Breath.
My Cohort.
My Side-kick throughout time.

My Snow-capped Mountain.
The Wind caressing my face.
My Vast Green Field.

The Ivy Covered Wall
that harbors my soul … ever refusing to yield.

In a different time ...

You … would have been my Life.

You … would have been my World.

You … would have been my Everything

and I will always love you for my own special reasons.

It is just a shame … and I'm so, so sorry … that you … must never, ever know.

Maybe next time.

~Charlie Brown

   When I came-to in the morning and read what I had wrote, I had to laugh a bit. It is borderline corny, very beautiful, very telling and very sad … all at once. I shook my head, laughing and told myself :

  “*******, Sam … yer losin' it. Get your **** together, will ya?”

  I guess in my stupor, I was imagining what it would have been like to write something for her. I don't know … There it was and I was stuck with it. I almost deleted it, but, my finger wouldn't press the key. As I told you before … I'd NEVER show this to her. She'd probably never speak to me again.

   As a sadder epilogue, that eventually happened. I still don't know why, but we haven't spoken in years. Maybe she sensed this emotion in me and ran away. Or maybe, just maybe … she thought I'd pushed her away somehow … but for whatever reason, we drifted apart. I guess I'll never know.  As you can see by reading this, that was never my intention. But, like I keep reiterating … It is what it is.

  One day, I called her number to catch up and shoot the breeze. I hadn't spoken to her in a few months as she'd been busy promoting her new novel and I didn't want to pester her. But … it was disconnected … I checked my emails … nothing. I'd never been so confused, she just closed me out. I didn't want to bother her. I was sure she had her reasons and if she wanted to reach out to me again, she would. She had my email and my phone number. But, for now … she was gone … and that was that.

  So, what do you think, Reader? Do I get the Tin hat … or a Badge of courage? Am I bat-**** crazy … or just eccentric? I'll leave it up to you to decide, because as I said, this all happened to me and there isn't a thing I can do about any of it. I just had to get it off of my chest. Thanks for letting me vent.

  Wherever she is … she will always mean the world to me. I can see her green eyes if I close my mine and look for them. Sometimes, on occasion, her face haunts my sleep. Still, I like to picture her, kids playing in a sprinkler behind her, digging in her garden, wearing gloves too big for her hands and a smudge of fresh dirt on her cheek … it makes me smile.

-Sam Webster
Brooklyn, New York
OK, you can stop scratching your head. I'm sorry if you feel like I tricked you or was playing a prank … That was not my intention. This piece is experimental writing, of sorts. If you are wondering, it's titled “Somewhere … Out There”. But I didn't want to put a title at the head of the page, as that might have clued you in too early.

I also confess that “Sam” the narrator is, on no uncertain terms, based loosely on myself. But hey, what better way to string you along? Besides, as Stephen King said, you “Write what you know”. As far as I 'm aware, using poetry within a short story like this, or in this manner, has never been done before. Welcome to the future!

It really belongs in my “From Thee Edge” Collection with the rest of my Twilight-Zone-esque short stories. (You can now read some of these fiction short stories here, posted in my "NoPo@HePo" posts, along with some non-fiction essays. I hope you enjoy them.) But, because I pieced together several of my poems to not only tell the story, but as a vehicle to carry it along as part of it; I wanted to put it here on Hello Poetry just to see if I could convince you long enough to get you through the story … while having you believe it was me speaking to you and that it was all very real to me. Thus, making it feel real to you as you read it.

Was I having you along right up until it was signed by someone else? Or, at least until the narrator addressed himself as “Sam”?

If so, then I accomplished my mission. I'd love to hear your comments on it. If you've been reading any of my other posts, I'm sure you've figured out that I like to run wildly outside of the box sometimes. This was just, as I said, an experiment in a different way to tell a story … fiction or otherwise. As always, I hope that I took you on a journey and, more importantly, that you enjoyed it.

~Jeff Gaines
(Lower Alabama)

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