She's almost a woman now, I forget sometimes,
no wait, she is a woman,
her face looks sixteen, though she's averting her eyes,
its her eyes, then, that hold her true age.
No, now she looks at me, ad I see only her gaze
and a smoothness of skin that reflects timelessness?
She's too young to be old, but nothing hints at her age
no defining mark or groove or experience,
no confident swagger that tries to assume
more years than are accurate.
Its her slumped shoulders, perhaps, that make her indefinable
her arms crisscrossed and tight at her stomach,
her head downcast—and yes, that is it
her avoidance to stare with any kind of blatancy;
an aversion that suggests innocence—or maybe
innocence one to many times lost.
There's no confidence of struggle, to suggest a well-worn life,
but no carefree exuberance to suggest discovery of youth.
She's almost a woman, I forget sometimes,
but I think she does too, or maybe its refusal,
its tough to judge sometimes, but her trembling body
indicates more than just a natural stagnancy.
She's already a woman, hard to see sometimes
who knew that fear made one neither old or young?
Perpetual Is, she walks on by.
Author notes
Shrug. Just decided to write a poem today as if I was someone else. Kind of a "What would a character of mine write if she wrote a poem" thing. This is what came out. A huge amount of fun to write. End product probably doesn't compare with what I usually write; though I don't think they're in the same category to compare.
My lines aren't based on any stragic pattern or look like I usually try to make them. Just based on feel, the sense I got as I wrote it as to when I would put in a line break.
Adding your comment: