i was asked to write how i felt about turning thirteen (or something along the meaning behind age idk), so i figured i might as well post it on here

~

On this day, my existentialism adores speaking on my own behalf, unbeknownst to my own opinions. Greetings: I appear articulating words that don't particularly have any true meaning behind a screen. Like a vaudevillian actor firing quite the burlesque on stage, I contemplate my thoughts on a screen that reaches out to only those who are truly here to listen.

Thirteen - such an odd number.

Made it this far with the demons lurching at my back and with the weight that has downed my throat and clogged the airways that allow my voice to just speak; made it this far with wilted roses instead of a soul, and worthless stone for organs. Turn your brain into gold and your ambitions into nothing but shredded paper in a hefty breeze down the Jersey shore. Worthwhile for you to be here; kill to make you hear me. For as, in the end, no one listens to the one that hides behind cypress petals, body like aster.

Voice like refined silk, yet words like rolling boulders. Ears shut, clammed with silence, blocking the meanings I've been attempting to shout for all these years. Thirteen; one step closer to the end of all things. Damaging, truly is how youth is suppressed under feathers that they cannot truly break out of. Not experienced enough, never experienced enough.

Words go beyond my years, like a fast-forwarded screenplay. Pry my throat out of my neck, just begging for someone to hear me. Express the unexpressed; represent the unrepresented. Adore the false idols and withhold the true admiration of those who truly deserve it. Within those vigilant eyes, innocence still lingers like a delicate flame, waiting to be blown away.

Expect to make choices that dictate the future, expect to make mistakes that ruin your image. Close your eyes, wish upon a candle, keep it safe as the smoke dissipates in the air. Nurture it tightly, but watch it fade away like every opportunity that never was able to vowed.

Waltzing around with percussive hearts, yet no beating soul. Never be able to contradict; kill to make you hear me. Bullet through the stone, never touch the gold. Shut your eyes, blow a wish, thirteen years.

Too much concern about acts beyond your own years, too little experience to make a mark on your own existence. Wasting away like debris left on the beach, yet glistening like a sparkler. It all ends when voices are suppressed under the weight of feathers that suffocate like the fist you clench when everyone sings: "Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday to you."

"For as, this is your day," they'd say. "Your happy day."

Kill for someone to hear me, kill to make my brain gold, kill for an opportunity, kill for a chance.

Yet too little experience remains, for as I am nothing but ready.

"Shut your eyes, make a wish, blow the candle. It's all for you."

~

yikes that was quite the unexpected thing to write;

extending upon all of that, thirteen is weird, not a lot of people take you seriously and honestly, i was surprised to see that most of you didn't expect me to be this age. don't know how to explain it, but to conclude i hope my writing gets better as i grow older.

when becoming thirteen rolls around, it's going to make my throat knot; not ready for life ahead of me, one step closer to the inevitable end. they say live in the moment, but how can you live if you just continue to worry?

haha, in the end i'm just too inexperienced to know what lies at the fork in the road.