Deeper rivers

As an attempt at understanding my teenagehood,

I compare it to structures that have great longevity,

but terminate, like rivers.

At the unkissed mouth we start our struggling doggy paddle,

with innocent and harmless rocks settled beneath the clarity.

The course yet to be determined, and time being felt at such unsteady rates.

With doors never to be opened for myself from that point forth,

I force myself through the cracks. 

For a fleeting second, the waters felt calm, 

barely brushing their edges, 

Although they never cease their urgent flow.

Differing from an ocean, I have so many limits.

Along my stream, I've had to take a gingerly walk away from myself,

for the rationality of clear water can only go so far

to transport you through murky muds.

During said walks, I've crossed many a crackling bridge,

and silently peered into the waves of pasts.

Waste of my already confined time, as peering always is. 

But peering is the only time that I can actually see myself clearly,

a hesistabltly positive action. 

I sometimes ponder if the water misses the fish that pass through it, 

as they may never return as they find their way into the world without the same waves. 

I wonder if the cresses feel abandoned in the absence of their constant caresses.

As the waves help them travel through their lives,

I wonder if they ever feel a bit betrayed. 

I'm also curious as to whether I am the fish or the water,

though both experience the fear in the tugging away from each other.

I wonder if both of them know that they're both just as scared to lose one another. 

Tis the sadness in the lack of communication.

Two people will never cherish each other the way they're meant to,

and I can't cherish my life if I trap myself in a narrow crevice of Earth 

that I try to look into and make sense of. 

This time in my life tells me my role in this world, 

as I am oh so unsure. 

Which is really for the best, as I boggle myself down with pre-made decisions,

but then I realize that I should be dramatizing the momentous ones in the making,

so I stretch myself just enough to casually pour all of my distress over all of them.

I suppose right now I'm peering into a section of my river that's suffering from some oil.

Some tar spilled from those that I shouldn't care for anymore. 

And while I don't care about them anymore,

I don't care for them any less either. 

I guess this is what the younger people call smack-dab in the middle,

although to that I would add "of a terrible series of events." 

All the acid rain and terrible burns left by it

should be acounted for in such an all-encompassing phrase. 
The pressure forced over my chest tells me

to breathe past the vines and soggy grass suspended in my lungs. 

The pressure is my incentive to move forward in conquering my fears,

yet it quite agonizingly strangles me simultaneously. 

But all in all, 

life kills every time,

in whatever manner so pleases it at the time. 

I optimistically anticipate the terminal of this river. 

For finding its end is the sole way of discovering

the mountains that stand so arrogantly ahead. 

As I stand taller atop them I look to be just as proud.

But, there will be many a time for my home river will go from fresh water to salt.

And many more a time in which feathers will be synonomous to bricks, 

Unfortunately, I will not wish to brave through any of this. 

But I will, in such the sneaking hope that it will be worth

the serenity that teenagehood hath not yet bestowed. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace.