My silly manic poetry that makes me crazy "im turning 18 soon"

"Im turning 18 soon" by Mar<3

I’m turning 18 soon, the dec of the 21 st actually. is it weird I can feel the essence of innocence being drained from my psyche? The memories of adolescence’s dispersing into vapor, crystalized into a bittersweet display of what had been. Soon to dissolve into the soil and lay to rest.

I’m turning 18 soon, Though I claw at the ground in a desperate emotional hue of florescent blues, I wasn’t finished yet. I wasn’t done. My teenage life, a poet's story who only had so much ink to spare.  Neglected and left only with the mind to hopelessly swoon over fairy tales, and arms to embrace love yet have nothing to fill them. Why is it she forgot to write the odes of young love? the fluttering lashes that lift up to heaven at the very moment a pair of doves participate in their first kiss. The intertwining of young foolish swans, ascending into Aphrodite’s paradise. Allowing the sweet gales of air to get caught in their wings.

I'm Turing 18 soon, so why is it that my garden of white lilacs fails to have bloomed by now? Paling in comparison of the on looking beauty’s he can’t help but find eye catching. How I deeply long for what they have, my emerald eyes shew away at the display of interlinked lovers. The bitter taste of envy sulking at the roof of my mouth. It’s sweet at first, you can’t help but adore the idea of affection. Though how quickly it is to rot, to corrode and twist into the phobia of rejection. 

Rejection. I hate that word. It follows like a bad omen, a banshee’s wail pronouncing the death of any chance of them liking me back. It’s unfair. So much so I even wish I had no 3love to spare.

I’m turning 18 soon, but I have nothing to show for it. No proclamations of intimacy or favored love letters to my name. Why I don’t even have any scars to learn and look back upon. I stand here unscathed, free of developmental blemishes. neglected of the privilege to explore the vast lands of figuring out the tides of love. Suitors who may even perceive me in the rosy lenses of beauty are scarce. All simply because he seeks out another of his own touch.

I’m turning 18 soon, and what further tribulations that await for me down my prophesied fate is unclear. I can only hope she finds a muse, the inspiration to pour the greatest of blissful fondness in on to the unworn and pristine parchment of my fate. For my romantic calligraphy to be not just written but woven with the heart strands of another.

Can you believe that I’ll be 18 soon?