Learn more about other poetry terms
Growing up ain't as fun as you think No one can prepare you for the Zits, quips, stink of uncertainty The fog that overtakes, blinds, defines you Picks you up and clouds your judgment,
Second Star to the right Past Big Ben Where you must go Is what I'm told It's what I've heard but where to is my concern My last thought b- before I fell Wishing
Be the Peter to my Wendy and we’ll grow young together. With nimble feet and sewn on shadows we’ll drift into a bank of memories piled high and stored in well-lit jars for our wrinkled years.