Youth & Ink

My hands tremble -
once, twice, 
down the march again
before i steady them,
clutching my bag like a lifeline.

There are 
creases around my eyes,
they tell stories of age.
But i am young,
young by so many definitions,
and old by so many more.

My age is not 
how many years i have
lived in reluctant existence
on this dying planet,
it is, instead,
the number of times i have
had to grow up too fast
or seen -heard, touched, smelled-
things i should not have.

For i find myself 
counting years as though
they are notches
and hey-

Here's another one to add.

The End

41 comments about this work Feed