from a prompt by pswordwoman

a short poem of no more than twelve lines, reflecting who you were at eighteen.

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Eighteen

Eighteen is a gate. Nineteen
is a shadow. Twenty is a locked
door. Twenty-one is a blank
wall. I’m no different from anyone else
at eighteen: certain that I’m different
from everyone else, certain that
music is a torch, certain that fucking
and doping are some kind of key, and
hopeful as hell
that a pen in the hand will work as well
as dynamite.