Living a Baker’s Dozen in years, I noticed a change.
Genetics seemed to rearrange my wiring,
and I was firing like wild synapses in a manic fashion.
My passion for words found its grounding, sounding
mildly poetic in a lyrical sense. My voice
kept cracking, stacking the cards against me.
Acne was the cruelest joke, poking through;
epidermal eruptions stealing what little appeal
I may have had. It was a bad year to be
so unclear about my future, life sutured together.
I crushed on the girl next door but couldn’t get her
to know I was alive. All that jive was not too keen.
God, no one knew how I hated being thirteen!
(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014
Poets United – Midweek Motif: The Number Thirteen