Poem- Growing up

adolescent adult beauty blur
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Today is for breathing,
With a mind looking back.
Questioning, deceiving,
the memories of a past.
That belonged to an ‘I’
that never really was.
Demons from fantasy,
shame and hidden lust.
Ambitious competition
with friends, that never were.
All clinging to the fragile raft,
of illusionistic, social blur.
No sense beyond the hormones,
lipstick compass, blindly aimed.
Weighted upon the fashions,
In reflection, time has shamed.
The little ‘mind’ still hides
From the names upon the wall.
Carving out its reason,
beyond stumbling down the hall.
We stood, we laughed, pretended.
Pranced about in patent shoes.
Dreamed of all our tomorrow’s,
For success we could not lose.
Beyond the shame of ignorance,
and pedestals we hoped to stand.
Beaming from the mountain,
With that recognition in our hand.
We’d be thinner, stronger, beautiful.
Married, children…at least two.
Fame, just around the corner,
Still not regretting the heart tattoo.
Why It never occurred tomorrow,
Is still another sleep away.
And that success can only come,
by taking small steps every day.
My 30 mind looks back upon,
bewildered little ‘mind’.
Still carting about these hurts,
my years, should have left behind.
Friendships won, then lost, forgotten.
Mistakes made and made again.
All carried in a suitcase,
to trip over now and then.
I didn’t becomes miss popular,
And I wasn’t top in any class,
I could have studied harder.
And fallen less upon my ass.
Time invested loving boys,
instead spent on loving friends.
Being honest with the who, I was,
not trying to pretend.
A chameleon to everyone
Alice bands, stuck upon my head.
Wishing I was ‘clueless’,
Instead of being ‘drop dead Fred’.
Ah the fickleness of friendships,
the nicknames that would sting.
The inevitable secrets, to be lost
and the tears misplacement brings.
My little ‘mind’ doesn’t realise,
this time, has come and gone.
Yet still she carrys on her suitcase,
Of hurts that don’t belong.
For sticks will be broken, and stones can be unkind.
The names in time, will each grow old,
Nursing hurt, own little minds.
Memories of a classroom,  filled with desperate need.
At what point will this ‘mind’ realise,
It’s now my turn to take the lead.
-Doris

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