after a long day of reading i begin to think i think maybe i am too young to write poems. i haven’t had time to get sick and tired and angry haven’t been loved really or loved really haven’t learned enough about this world don’t know enough am not wise. i haven’t seen the world really or poverty or war or death or addiction. a child has a kind of beautiful naivety and wonder for all things new and unseen but me with my twenty one years have scrabbled in the dust and stones on the surface cut my knees once or twice – i have known and learned but am still up here balancing have not yet jumped into real life i am hovering in my bubble untainted above all the horror i think maybe before real poems come i need time to mature grow ripen like a lemon go sour
