I’m looking forward to two thousand seventeen. Real. Sixteen was impressed, tried to be, like lip gloss and forty five spinning dreams. Diary pages framed with little hearts, why, oh why don’t they like. Ya, one of those. But, at least I had a leader. Real. Cool. Looked up to, and believed. Relieved, unconcerned, while I focused on the trivial. Selfish, I’ve been, when yesterday’s alright really wasn’t. Front line woe is me poetry as neighborhood pantries, raisers, and walks for cures were back burned. Slacked, slapped in reality. Really, even with ice and trees people need something. Listening, I didn’t.

Now. There will be piles of eagles beneath killing windmills. Mess with the mills, mess with me. Still, I’m not anything, I can say, “How fucking stupid can it be”. Not mine. I’ve grown up. Seventeen won’t shut up. Real. Not as an adversary. I’m not going low. She told. No, it’s more making up what should have before. Less me, those more.


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