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Age of Sorrow
by Gabe ZamoraTeenager.
The age of sorrow
We cry and we mope,
All trying to cope,
My sad sad sonnets,
My chained free verses.
Striving for affection,
Starving for attention,
Currents of convection,
What a beautiful sight.
Sweaty palms,
Perspiration,
Voice cracks,
Puberty at its utmost finest.
Ages 13 through 18,
A game we all play,
Someday or another,
We all go through the angst.
It is knowing and not understanding
Teenager. 03/26/2008 Posted on 03/27/2008
Copyright © 2025 Gabe Zamora
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 03/27/08 at 04:40 AM Nicely put, man. |
| Posted by Alison McKenzie on 03/27/08 at 03:45 PM I truly think being a teenager is more difficult now than it was back in my day. At least, it LOOKS more difficult to me, watching my own. This is awesome!!! |
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