Poetry Collection - A Study of Aging

A Study of Aging

“How It Feels To Be The Moon”:

When the Sun dimmed his lights,

My thoughts became craters.

There is a surplus of darkness,

and I have begun the glow a lustrous white.

For once I am seen!

I shine my light onto Earth,

Although what I see is not what I thought.

Where have you gone?

Why not look at me?!

I am here so bright, ones eyes wrinkle beneath my rays!

Yet you’re not looking,

Why?

Alas, I am reminded.  

It is now night.

The eyes once opened, have closed for rest,

My thoughts must stay with me again this slumber,

True, it may be for the best.

“Turning Seventy Nine”
Everyday at quarter to one, I go and visit the mirror.
There lives an old woman of maybe seventy five.
Youth stripped down leaving fragile bones suctioned onto a wrinkled blanket.
I would never dare propose a hello or goodbye,
Too paralyzed in the trance she pulls me into.
Her demeanor is chilling.
Belligerence swirls inside her eyes,
She's not a harmless old woman, of maybe seventy five.
She's lost some battles, I can surely tell
She's been left to rot,
Another box on a garage sales self.
This poor old woman,
No one seems to care,
If she dies, if she lies, or even if she stares.
The park bench is where she will go, I know I'll find her there one night.
Cold and freezing,

Although today, she is safe.
Still living behind my glass mirror
But it won't be long until,
This poor old woman, of maybe seventy five
Turns seventy nine.

“Sundays At Age Sixteen”

Today is the day smog is replaced by sun.

It is 6:05 now and my eyesight is sharp, and my mind is jelly

On days which drip rage, the smog creeps beneath my bedroom door

Through my ears, it settles.

But today is Sunday.

The smog is lifted.

My dining room is silent

The ringing inside my ears has gone away

I feel relaxed from my fingers to my toes.

I sit in my grandmother’s chair and study the sun.

Birds flutter towards my window, then hush away.

The solitude comes in rushes on Sundays.

My overbearing thoughts have disappeared,

Yet I crave their return.  

Somehow madness feels more comfortable than loneliness.

Inside my smog I keep myself company with my made-up world,

Where lovers meet,  

Where friends are at peace.

Fake realities and lives I create, to keep me warm.

On Sunday they take their coffee breaks and visit their children across town.

I am alone

My shoulders shake from warmth,

But I haven't decided if I like that yet.

“March 29th and the thoughts inside my mind”

It was March 29th,

I was in the lunchroom with my left side, my right brain,

We discussed school work and laughed about boys

Innocent blabber about insects crawling on top of our lunch plates.

But little did we know,

In the next 5 minutes,

Our voices we’re hushed.

We stood still like dust.

I felt the urge to scream, cry, shit my pants, and sob

My emotions fell over me,

Like the brick wall outside.

The brick wall that’s supposed to protect us from any harm, right?

My left side and I share looks with hopeful eyes, with whatever flicker remains in our deteriorated smiles

Five more minutes have passed.

We’ve stopped talking.

I receive a text from my mother

I can hear her shaky voice through the coding on my screen

I reply back love notes and white lies.

I wish to seep honey for her,

but only salt builds up inside.

Ten minutes passed,

We are under the tables now, all four of us.

I can't hear anything outside, but we must take precautions,

We must comply to prevent more losses.

We must comply because our second amendment tells us:

We are free, and freedom comes with a price tag.

Freedom to me isn’t hiding under my table clutching my best friends soaked shirt.

We are teenage girls

We should be mixing vodka and coke,

Not tears and sweat

I am a sixteen year old girl

I should be receiving my first college admission letters, not my first bullet hole.

So why is it-

That instead of going to English class and learning about One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,

I’m underneath a classroom desk being told to hold my knees to my chest.

“Silly Boys!”

Silly girls are lovers drowning in puddles and praying for the hands of their hero.

Silly boys’ lies sneak out underneath their fingertips while rescuing silly girls-

poisoning their brains with sweet and sour candy.

Silly boys are dark clouds creeping towards a glistening patch of sun.

Overlap each other to find Their One-

To rip apart and sell out like used car parts.

An engine for you, sir!

A tire for him!

Nothing left for her but

bare.

used.

skin.

The patch of sun turns into a rain cloud.

It's dissolved into the dark grey sky.

I feel her dropping cold wet goodbyes.

Silly boys sneak up to girls at parties.

Hold down their feet and kiss them closely.

“She can't kick if we kiss her!”

Silly boys’ mouths are like milk cartons.

Hoaxes dribbles down the sides, stinking of spoiled milk.

It fills the floor, and I drown in it.