<div class="page side-photo">
<article>
<div class="image" style="
background-color:#fff;
"></div>
<div class="container" style="background-color: #fff;">
<header style="font-family: Open Sans; color: #000;">
<h1>Wasted Youth </h1>
</header> <!-- /header -->
<div class="main">
<p class="summary" style="color: #000;">A Poem</p>
<p class="byline">Hannah Chubb</p>
<p><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">This
is banging on paint-chipped doors, <br>with
name tags and stickers that blur in front of you<br>before
springs will be safety-tested and threads counted. <br>This
is a diary written without a pen, <br>with
exclamation marks spilling off pages <br>and
capitals dripping from chapped lips.<br>This
is a pot and a pan, <br>crusty
with last week’s childhood favourite <br>housing
rust thicker than the hair we throw off our shoulders <br>whilst
batting triple coated eyes. <br>This
is a hot house on a warm day, <br>with
squeaky floor boards and cupboards <br>that
haven’t reached capacity since day one. <br>This
is a long-distance phone call, <br>where
the salt in your eyes makes you miss the ocean <br>but
not as much as you miss the voice on the other end. <br>This
is a plastic mug that snatches your fears, <br>and
a boy that grips your fingers <br>while
you wear a shirt the principal would have sent you home in <br>only
last year. <br>This
is cotton by day and spandex by night, <br>where
charcoal smudges come in bulk <br>and
blisters grow increasingly fertile. <br>This
is what seems like the conclusion but is only your inception, <br>where
near death experiences become a way of life <br>and
you scream just loud enough to remind yourself that you are alive. <br>This
is where stains come in every colour, <br>and
a lipstick print can become a masterpiece <br>when
synthetic euphoria puts a brush in its hand. <br>This
is high-heels in the middle of the road, <br>puke
on the pavement, <br>flames
in the kitchen, <br>snapping
pencil leads, <br>stumbles
and falls, <br>and
broken hearts being healed and re-broken<br>all
while your twin-sized bed back home lies waiting <br>for
the girl who got Cheerios stuck up her nose<br>and
the boy who couldn’t pronounce his “r”s until the fourth grade. <br>This
is the time we will remember. <br>This
is how we will define ourselves. <br>This
is what we want to fast-forward until we look back at the greatness that
unfolded and we would sell our success for just one chance to rewind.<br>This,
my friends,<br>this
right now, <br>is
perfectly wasted youth.</span></span></span></span></p>
</div>
</div>
</article>
</div><!-- /page-->