Seven years old;

It’s that age where

We’re seemingly uncontrolled.

Where something unfair

Is a travesty, where being bold

Means picking up a worm, or maybe a pair.

At seven years old,

There was no despair;

Everything that glittered was gold.

 

Seventeen years old;

On a good day

The sun shimmers gold

And story ideas come like a bouquet.

But now being bold

Means going to college,

And throwing my life away.

I feel as though I’ll never be consoled;

My parents refuse to acknowledge

The weight of every failed scholarship essay.

There’s no more time to play;

My birthday is only a week away,

And being an adult

Seems less and less okay

Every single day.