At Sixteen Poem, by gray0328, at My poetic side

I scold my younger self too easily,

as if he could have seen this future

with clearer eyes, steadier hands,

or a compass that didn’t spin wildly.

He wore mistakes like mismatched earrings,

loud enough to be noticed,

too stubborn to take off.

He believed permanence was a reckless lie,

and tomorrow was always just optional.

I sit here, older, wiser,

with years puffed in my jacket pockets,

clucking my tongue like a disapproving clock,

mistaking time for some kind of halo.

But hindsight is a liar framed as clarity,

whispering, "You should have known better."

As if the map is ever handed out

before you set foot on the trail.

If I’m honest, I miss his daring,

the way he plunged forward

without waiting for permission

to make a sound.

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