I dreamed of being sweet sixteen, then magic twenty-one
Now I am twenty-nine and seeing thirty come.
My babysitter calls me ma'am, it makes me feel quite numb.
How can I think of me as old? I've always been so young.
I once could name the ten top songs played on the radio.
Now I turn the rock groups down or hunt for something slow.
Now there are lines around my eyes I thought would never show.
And pounds that used to be above my waist have sunk below.
The boy I worshiped as a teen, now lies beside me snoring.
His middle's thicker, and so is mine and he's not so adoring.
He used worship at my feet but now mostly he's ignoring.
And I once clung to his every word but now mostly he is boring.
I was depressed to see how fast my youthful days could flee.
And then I met a fine old man, his age was eighty-three.
His hair was white, his walk was slow and he could barely see.
He called me child and said he wished he was young as me.
If you are the copyright holder of this poem and it was submitted by one of our users without your consent, please contact us at http://support.scrapbook.com and we will be happy to remove it.