Soaking Wet! (ode to YoungWriter)

You're wet behind your ears,

they need to be cleaned,

you're completely lacking in years,

you're not old enough

to compete with your peers.

Your words are leaky

sputter out of your sieve

and are not complete -

your thoughts drift all over

pull them back to earth.

I stomp on your ideas

reduce them to mush,

scatter them to the wind,

spear you with my pen

and set you on fire

to ignite your words.

I crumble you

into your written phrases,

roll you up in clouds,

throw you down the abyss.

Your fractured idioms

need to be splinted

before they can climb

back up to the rim,

but you can't negotiate

the hovering summit

just out of your reach.

I take your blood

inhale into my pen

and transfuse some of mine

to give you fighting chance.

As you said in your poem,

you tried to fail

but if you succeed

what will you have done?

When you age,

not too gracefully, I assume,

you can try again

to compete

with your superiors.

For now,

you've lost your battle

but can win your war

when you've grown up

to be all you can be!