I cannot wait for the time to come
when wrinkles write wisdom in lines in my skin
and nobody judges a few extra pounds,
for they'd fear my dying if I became thin.
I cannot wait for the double-strength specs
and head full-adorned with a neat cap of grey-
a day when true beauty means being alive,
and I can be judged on the strength of my brain.
I cannot wait to shed childish angst;
not be called foolish for sharing this heart-
give me experience to give me some credit
(fill this girl's body with time-softened scars)
and then make them stop, make them listen, take note
of an old woman's words, for they're surely profound,
and I will write all this without being mocked
by the shallow contempt of a crass teenage crowd,
who simply don't get it and can't comprehend
the vastness of feeling inside this young head.
Give me some years to give weight to my words,
and they may just love all this after I'm dead.