Prosetry in Pink

As a teenage girl-thing, I was known to scribble prose.

Rhyming, or not, ridiculous, and too schoolgirl-ish to show.

I had a large pink fluffy notebook and a chewed-up fluffy pencil.

A myriad of jumbled thoughts that were very possibly mental.

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I can see one of the entries now, in my mind’s eidetic.

entered on a Winter’s eve spent hogging the radiator.

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‘Eaten: 1 apple, chocolate yoghurt, and some soup.

Followed Lovegod Andy home all the way from school!

He’s still got that awful girlfriend, what does he see in her?

She wears clogs. She’s a boring snob, and she has frizzy hair!’

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Night after night I duly scribbled in this way.

Boys, friends, school, my family; they all got in their say.

Another dark entry which is lodged in memory;

the obligatory ‘I hate Mum!‘ for her evil refusal,

to allow me out toTown, without her strict perusal.

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Oh fourteen is such a painful, awkward, cringing age,

and I held my breath through fifteen as a transitory stage.

By sixteen and seventeen the Telephone,

held my rapt attention with fresh life of it’s own.

And I caressed it to my ear on a mahogany throne.

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The redundant pink notebook was cruelly discarded

for flop-haired boys, Television, and spin-the-bottle parties.

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Never to be opened,

never to be read.

Stuffed in box room cupboards,

discarded and alone.

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How I wish I’d kept on writing from my teens until middle-aged,

The shocking tales I’d have recorded, the memories unfolded.

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But now I am that older Me, a mummy and a wife,

I bought a new shiny notebook, in pelican and white.

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I vow to treasure it forever, and starting from tonight,

But I’ll have to wear my glasses, because of my bad sight.