In the hallway of teenage whim,
Among fancies light and grim,
There exists a silent love,
As quiet as a cooing dove.
A love that is simple and pure,
Yet holds a fascination, for sure.
For as I walk past rows of seats,
My heart flutters, then repeats.
In jeans of blue or shorts of hue,
I find my thoughts circling through,
The marvel of those curves so cute,
Oh, the charm of a well-fitted suit!
In laughter's peal or serious mien,
On faces, every emotion seen,
Yet my eyes, they wander south,
Held captive by a wordless mouth.
Cute butts, Oh, they steal my gaze,
As I traverse the school's wide maze.
No ill intent, nor foul deceit,
Just an appreciation, subtly sweet.
Their shapes, a myriad, fill my sight,
In shadows soft or the sun's bright light.
Round or firm, or somewhere between,
A love so silent, seldom seen.
I pen these words, a tribute fair,
To a fascination beyond compare.
An ode to cute butts, far and wide,
A teenage girl's secret pride.
Amidst the bustle, amid the fuss,
Who would've thought it'd be thus?
A simple joy, found in a glance,
In the theatre of life's vast expanse.
Cute butts, they dance in my dream,
An innocent love, under moonbeam.
This is my secret, my silent song,
In a world where we all belong.
So here I sit, a poem in hand,
About a love that's grand,
From a teenage girl, a simple truth unfurls,
She loves the cute butts of boys and girls.
© Susie Stiles-Wolf
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Author:
GeekSusie (
Offline) - Published: September 21st, 2023 14:22
- Comment from author about the poem: In the dusty corners of my attic, tucked away in yellowing pages and fading ink, I found a poem I penned in the tender years of my youth. As I sat cross-legged amidst a trove of memories, reading each line and stanza, a sense of nostalgia swept over me. Those words were a mirror reflecting a version of me I had nearly forgotten—a mirror framed in the idealism, angst, and raw emotion that characterized my earlier years. Rereading my old writings has been a voyage back in time, but also an enlightening experience. There are moments when I barely recognize the person who spilled her thoughts onto those pages. She was passionate, sometimes recklessly so, burning with an intensity that seemed uncontainable. Yet, other times I read a phrase or a sentiment and think, "Ah, there she is. There's a glimmer of the woman I've become." It's like watching a movie and suddenly realizing you're not just an audience member, but also the protagonist and the narrator, the critic and the fan. Through this journey, I've rediscovered pieces of myself I'd set aside or forgotten—pieces that I now realize have shaped me in profound ways. The passion hasn't dimmed, it's simply evolved, maturing alongside me, distilled into a form that is perhaps less volatile but no less vital. The ideals that once felt abstract and distant have become the principles by which I live my life. The insecurities that plagued me have not entirely disappeared, but I've learned to navigate them with a grace born of experience and self-awareness. As I close the notebook and place it back in its sentimental archive, I appreciate the serendipity of this find. My younger self had no idea that her words would serve as both a time capsule and a treasure map, a guide back to the essence of who I was and, in many ways, still am. Revisiting my old writings hasn't just been an exercise in reminiscence; it's been a celebration of the continuum of self, an acknowledgment that while we grow and change, there is a core within us that remains constant. In this moment, I am a blend of who I was, who I am, and who I aspire to be. And that feels like a beautiful place to be.
- Category: Humor
- Views: 4
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Comments1
We are all protagonist ,narrator ,critic and (idealistic) mirror of our impermanent shadow theater ..
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