Under Age Poems - Poems about Under Age

(“The Longest Journey”, 2020, original encaustic) Along For The Ride The older I get the less I seem to know Or even care And the more I feel a somewhat detached Observer. I’m okay with this Simply because there is no alternative Although I’m sure a doctor could give me Some drug or hormone to change my view. And being okay with it, Not resisting or...

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You start to look through another pair of glasses If you lacked any experience, life has offered you classes You learn from your past failures and successes You've become wiser while your heart has grown restless What entertained you before, now irritates you somehow Things that made you laugh, you shake your head at now You now see the pitiful...

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pepperishly lively she brought the party activity director better than Vitamin B Grumpy ones pretended not to like her But the light in their eyes unveiled their truth And they were the eager ones Watching the doorway on Tuesdays at two o’clock...

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To Hell with Cultural Approiation or Cultural Copy. It is very very wrong and unconscionable unless we are copying uplifting values only. Copying poor value systems like smoking ganja or cigarettes, over excessive rum/alcohol drinking gun running, crime, and even gloryfying submersive gansata rap lyrics are wrong for our children's sake. these are bad examples. I...

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The illusion  In a small park ringed by gloomy trees near where the factories used to be, was the bust of a man on a splint made of bronze, a mesen, she liked to use words like that in a desperate world of poverty, tinned sardines  in olive oil and mackerel in tomato sauce The Mesen who owned the factories...

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Putting my best foot forward shoulder to the wheel nose to the grindstone my Achilles heel while sticking my neck out I soon found as with my eye on the ball ear to the ground when I put my back into it not with tongue in cheek but to keep my chin up heard joints creak the onset of old age memory loss an early taste for in the end...

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The  Necktie He woke up fully dressed, minus his tie, in the lumpy bed of a third-rate hotel, which had a fridge beside the TV The last semi-civilized place, one up from sleeping rough  The room reeked of depravity, and a dusty curtain  protecting the inhabitants from the cruel world outside The news was about a woman who strngled with a...

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It's with something as heavy as death or light as silence Time going on leaving us behind ignoring our presence Unless you give your voice no one knows your alive In a world where no one cares you'll be left deprived People will miss you but how would know if don't connect Not connecting is like resting...

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We never walked down the isle in africa we never do when pocket light so we sat on plastic seats in the heat the tent tried and died in the steam sweat, hopes and hot tea We never walked down the isle but jus one job was to be in love , in respect, in you till...

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Those we love don't go away. They walk beside us every day, but one morning sun's gentle ray says things are not the same. Yes, I can remember when I first touched her in November. Now, it's just a dying ember, a memory of love's flame. I wonder, did she, my life, complete? These memories fly by so fleet, and can you please...

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So many days have passed Too many to count Not that I would want to know But the thing to remember The more days behind me The fewer there are ahead But I’m not afraid of that last day Maybe I will spend that day drinking Or I may find another way to be in trouble I can be sure of one thing: I...

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Oddballs in New York The strange people who want to live until they are 200 years old and, if possible, forever.  Needless to say, these people are also rich I saw the leader of the odd people, who tells us He goes to bed at eight and rises at five shift workers to have a similar routine, not they wish to be...

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I Heard My Name. I heard the vastness speak my name. It told of troubled days. In my eagerness to be here, I agreed without delay. Bursting through the veil, I came to live this life. Knowing that it held my days of pain and strife. Choosing my own path. With lessons to be learned. I come to this, my grateful heart for that which...

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My PTSD is here within me. Tries to control my mind. Tries to dictate what I find. My PTSD lives here with me. Can control some actions and thoughts. Bilateral movements ground my defence to its calls. My PTSD creates vivid memories which lock me into dark spaces alone. I have to act when the triggers...

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The tryer in short bursts, the quiet expresses  a need to communicate about work done but not published Self-critical, raked with doubts  with no connection to the world of publishing  Offer from publishers is that he will pay them, is like paying for sex; it leaves behind self-disgust, this unbecoming need to see one's words in print The hard part is to admit to the lack of...

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