An Old Soul

Poem By Lenore Lee

I’m not like other children my age.
The children my age are precarious fools,
Whose actions are unjustified.
I don’t understand why they do as they do,
But oh, children will be children, will they not?
I’ve now gained the nickname of ‘mother’
Because I see them hurt each other for no reason,
And I’ll always step in to tell them to stop.
I hear them spread rumours,
And I don’t believe a word they say.
I’m implicated about their futures,
As if they care about their futures.
All of the foolish teens are in agony,
So despite their absurdity I try to help.
They only stab me in the back in the end.
I don’t understand the children my age,
They are cruel, unsophisticated and hostile.
They hold such pain, yet they cause that pain in others. Why?
I hold pain and it only makes me want to erase any pain in others.
Why would having pain make you want to upset others?
I’m only fourteen yet somehow I’m older than those who are sixteen,
They’re little children who know so little about the world, compared to me.
I don’t understand them enough to befriend them, so I’m lonely
And the adults don’t enjoy being friends with a child like me.
Looks are deceiving; I feel like a cognizant ancient.
I try my best but I’ll never understand any of them,
It won’t happen; I’m not as old as I feel, I am stuck being an old soul.

Comments about An Old Soul

I understand how you feel, i am the same
I like this thoughtful piece, free of form like the honest emotions expressed. Most poets are old souls as comes with the malady of being a poet. Friends are everywhere as face book will attest. But true and good friends are rare, and few as it should be. As Paul Kelly said, some friends have risen and some have moved on. This is the nature of the journey. We may only ever sustain a few good friends. People that will give you their meal, their only shirt, and an honest opinion carefully proffered. Nice writing.


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I cry and I don't know why,
I vent and stress,
I struggle in a mess,
I scream and feel frustrated,

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She gives a deep, breathy, longing sigh,
And dreams about believing.

True Beauty

When a pretty girl walks down the street,
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The Sociopath (1)

I sat alone today and wondered if I could still feel,
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Alone once again and it doesn’t even cause me pain.
I try to remember how to have blind belief gained.