I try to write you in so many ways,
in tears, in loves, and in poems.
and yet nothing really to show for them.
Except maybe a little more faith in love,
and a little more faith in me,
a little more faith in Him above,
and a little more faith in being free.
Though I don’t usually use couplets of rhyme,
and though I’m a fool for even trying,
at the cusp of a new prime,
what’s the point of lying?
I am no good poet, no good woman,
not even a good lover.
I can’t say “I do” or “I can”
so much as I can appreciate another.
My words are coarse and my eyes are vain,
but I promise you I can love a lot.
I might still grieve over a 2-year-old pain,
but another year and maybe I’ll have forgot.
Just so, with Christmas and exams,
and maybe a few texts that send warm wishes,
I’ll sit studying and I’ll cry as I cram,
and I’ll sing Adele as I wash the dishes.
Dear 18, you were just like this poem:
a funny little attempt at crude humour.
The fact is this year I showed them
just how brightly I think of my future.
The birthday flowers will wilt and so will the sun,
but the nighttime always proved the best for writing.
Please take one night, have some wine and have fun,
because you’re no longer 18 – you can stop fighting.