Twelve-Years and Three-hundred and sixty four days old with a day left until I’m cool

With Bastille Day not even
Twenty-four hours away,
July thirteenth was bound to be exciting
And what made it even better,
Was that I was with two of my best friends
At Beaver-Brook camp grounds.
We three each had a box of twenty
Mini, frosted doughnuts
And then we peddled so we could
Play eighteen holes of the two best types
Of golf, which are mini and Frisbee,
But by the end of that
We were hungry and thirsty,
But after seven Pepsis,
Eight hamburgers,
And a single bag of chips
We were ready to set out again,
But this time
We went to the stream,
So we could catch frogs
Like we used to
When we were little
But now with me
The oldest of the three about to turn
Thirteen
We weren’t so little anymore,
And we showed it by the way we rode
Our fifteen-speed mountain bikes;
Jumping over all the pine tree roots
On the side of the road and running through
Potholes on
The dirt roads which
We took back to our campsite,
Just in time for spaghetti noodles and after
Eating them, my mom went out for a canoe ride
So we got out the one hundred and forty-four
Pack of morning glories and cut them open
One by one, pouring black powder into a Pepsi can
With one that we saved for a fuse
So we could make our wall of orange;
Which mom saw across the lake and
She told us to go easy on the pyrotechnics
When she got back so we played poker and I knew I couldn’t lose with
KKKKA;
Then after the game we went to bed so
I could have my first memory of being
Thirteen
Which came when the clock read 2:52
And I stuck my head out the tent just in time
To barf acrid spaghetti noodles.


This one is a pretty damn accurate acount of me turning 13. I think this poem came out pretty kick ass.