I've always loved pretty things.
Maybe that's why I never cared for the mirror- but that is beside the point.
I loved pink when I was younger, a colour so soft and yet so bold.
Purple is my favourite now.
It doesn't look as meek.
I painted daffodils where now my sketchbooks are filled with eyes.
I used to hold up my sparkling fingers to tell people that I am four years old.
Nine times out of then I was holding up three fingers.
I can't hold up the number eighteen on my hands.
I'm off track again, damn it.
I like pretty things; sunsets, rainbows, rings, rocks that sparkle in the light.
Somehow those pretty things filled a part of me that was empty.
They gave colour to my world.
Now, at eighteen- everything looks gray.
My poems aren't about kittens and bunnies anymore.
I'm terrified of my future.
I want to be four again.
I don't want to see that the sunsets are all the same shades of pink.
I don't want to realize that daffodils are pale in colour.
I don't want to be eighteen.
The world used to look so pretty.
Why doesn't it look pretty anymore?
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Author:
Kinsey Peterson (
Offline) - Published: April 28th, 2023 15:02
- Comment from author about the poem: Happy birthday to me.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
- Users favorite of this poem: Bobby O, L. B. Mek, Ash :)
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Comments4
Happy birthday, fellow poet. It pains me to watch the vivid color fade from your world through the lenses of your beautiful words. However, I will offer you the solace that it will get better. Eighteen is a transitional stage where the colors of youth are wiped away, but soon will be replaced by a different palate of adulthood. Although the future may look bleak, have hope. I have faith that you will see color again.
Two sides to all events. It’s a privilege to join as the parts entered that collect and direct the pain and circumstance you describe are the same entrances to the great list of potential delivered joy. Somebody way smarter than me talked about the greatness of humans and water and use of fire as most valued and beneficial that we as a race have at our disposal but yet Fire and Water are tied to much destruction. The double edged and irony falls in our life with no rancor but yet as sentient beings we can steer and therefore cheer for desired best results.
Many belated birthday blessings .. (see, I've just done it again .. told ya it's a habit didn't I ) .. Anyway, welcome to the growed up world .. Now we both know it aint all smiley faces and fluffy bunnies but hey .. if we all do our bloomin best to be honest, kind and good .. (there I go again) .. we can make it just a bit brighter maybe .. Luved the poem by the way .. 🌹🌹🎶🎵🐧x
'Somehow those pretty things filled a part of me that was empty.
They gave colour to my world.
Now, at eighteen- everything looks gray.
My poems aren't about kittens and bunnies anymore.
I'm terrified of my future.'
such relatable and sincere wording
of pilfering Time's, incessant plague
affecting us, at our now
of life..
(Tomorrow's, conceptualised
as our avenues to better
before we place our head on pillows
blank - dreamless or nightmare stained
we arrive hours later, to a fate
as yet, unforgiving
instead of that promised better
we're forced
to face yesterday's problems, now
even more pressure intensified
since all that's happened is we've lost
Time, to deal with them
and
we look out, to a new days sunrays
and realise
tainted by all our accumulating anxiety
our world is lacking vibrancy in both colour
and ease of breath, serenity..
Then
just one thumb flicked post, that matches our vibe
or song, that serenades our woe
is all it takes, to revive our fight
to insure, we survive
till that promised, better in life
arrives!)
stay strong, kind Poet
you have a most talented poetic gift
for expression without exaggeration
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