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i.

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the radio is blaring tales of adolescence
as she wakes up to the sound of guitars
and talk of the teenage wasteland.
a new year, a new day,
and yet nothing seems to have changed.
new year's resolutions are long forgotten,
and high school is rearing its big ugly head
in her reluctant eyes.

what a wasteland it is;
the teacher gives them their prized edumacation
while spitballs fly left and right.
stories of late nights, beer, and pussy
are the only things that can be heard,
save for the snoring of the burnout in the corner.
she watches them through the zoo's looking glass
like the animals they are
and reminds herself that this is normal.

later that night she's out and about,
growing older at an astonishing rate.
so much for being peter pan,
she lifts the can to her lips
and drinks the toxic contents
as though they were from the fountain of youth.
see, she's smart enough to know
that if she doesn't go with the flow,
the river will wash her up on shore
and the other fish will go on without her.
with that thought,
she takes a drag from her cigarette
and acts like she's okay with getting cancer.

[im]mature as can be,
she thinks she's found the secret to growing up.
this rite of passage, however,
is just the beginning.

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an: this is my first attempt at anything with a definite plot. yes, that's right, this is a story in the works, it's just written in poetry form. if anyone thinks this is in the wrong place, please tell me, because i'm really not sure. where does one put poetic prose? all thoughts and opinions are welcome. :)

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