lament magnet
This is a sequel to the birthday poem I wrote earlier this week.
Seventeen
Tomorrow, they’ll say I’m seventeen,
But it feels like a lie,
A weight pressed on my chest
That I didn’t ask for.
I don’t want candles,
Or a cake frosted with time.
I want scraped knees
And the soft hum of childhood dreams.
There’s a soul inside me,
Trapped and restless,
Pressing its hands
Against the walls of my growing years,
Begging to go back
To when the world was slower
And I didn’t have to know
What comes next.
Seventeen feels like a thief,
Stealing the quiet wonder
I didn’t know I’d miss
Until it was already gone.
outer kernel