Lament of a Late Bloomer (edit of an old one)

Started by indar9, March 17, 2021, 04:24:57 PM

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In fifth grade I could draw
better than anybody
except Mary Angela
could draw horses
better than I could.

We went to her house,
used a piece of drywall
to chalk a ten foot tall
horse on the street
She knew all the kids
who stopped on their bikes
to watch.

We got drunk
on her father's
homemade dandelion wine,
she put her chameleon
in her mouth, smiled wide
so its head
came out like a tongue.
We laughed like crazy.

She was the one who
made me take
my first puffs
on a cigarette,
held my hair while I threw up
and told me
after a few more times
I wouldn't get sick.

We practiced kissing
in her room
so when a boy came along
we'd know what to do
and I confessed
I really liked Bobby Jameson.

Then she crossed over some line
but I didn't.
She made new friends
so I played house with Anita
and her little-girl baby dolls.

It made me sick
I was so stupid
and ugly
that Mary Angela
had to leave me behind.


It's been a long while since I perused this forum, so I'm late with the input.

I vaguely remember this poem from way back.

It's heartbreakingly honest in how it reflects on growing pains and how we, even as children are so unkind to ourselves.
"Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read." -Groucho Marx

A child's life is like a piece of paper on which every passerby leaves a mark. -Chinese proverb

Blondesplosion! ~Deb