At fourteen I wrote them about glass and coffee
and self-identity. Like a bird I screeched my sentience
from telephone wires.
At fifteen I wrote poems about writing poems,
an embarrassing amount, really.
Like any honest teenage writer
I was more enthralled with the idea of art
than art itself.
“I’m a poet,” I announced to a world half-listening,
and roasted those words until they were overdone
and rough as leather. I admit, in those early days
I did not know how to be tender.
At sixteen I turned with a hardened heart
to the way of Plath, depression, darkness
and macabre feminine ballads.
That was no place to stay
so at seventeen, having passed through the
three levels of novice writer hell,
I dug in my nails and crucified myself
on paper.
And now at the ripe age of nearly-nineteen
I write them about spiders and alcoholics,
violins and violence, ocean waves and
wavering conviction
not to mention
feminism and France and sunflowers
and goodness and God
and you.
mywordpool 
You’ve nailed the adolescent poet!
In more ways than one, I hope! 🙂 Thanks so much!
Arachnids?
Indeed 😉 I’m writing a short story about them now.
In your maturing; the blooming is evident; beautiful growth displays.
Thank you for these kind and beautiful words! Sometimes I feel stagnant, like I’m making no progress, but I’m glad you see growth happening here.
Love the chronological order, and completely agree with the comment above! You can see an evolution throughout your own self.
Thank you so much!
and now that you’re twenty …?
Ah. Now that I’m twenty, I write short stories.
Sadly, I haven’t been posting them here because I’m trying to get published elsewhere (“serious magazines” won’t accept work that is posted to a blog). If I ever break through in that world, I’ll post here and let you know 🙂 But I’m sure I’ll find my way back to poetry eventually…