<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-->