Consolation

You are at age when nothing holds you,

Any slight contact with the world bruises you

You write

 but it's not quite writing

More of strange words disconnected from each other

Each word sitting alone

Unable to reach out 

and form a sentence.

There is too much thrashing and clawing

 for things that are too early for you to grasp on to.

And hope and belief seems fraudulent words

Your young heart is wary of them already,

Suspicious, watchful and stays away.

You dread the cold immense nights stretched out infront of you,

with daytime so far away

You still haven't gotten used to loneliness

Not yet.

But there are certain consolations, you tell yourself

Soaking in the warm winter sun with the book

 you were supposed to save up for the dreary days of December.

 And walks, long solitary aimless walks

 in which you end up dreaming out loud to yourself.

But what you really have

you don't know yet.

And that partly makes up

For what you can no longer call your own.