When puberty hit me.

Hello all,

All those whose puberty hit them on time,

Well, mine did not quite rhyme.

My me was hence, insecure,

if at all she could ever maybe procure,

Procure what you all have had for long,

prayed for puberty to hit me quite, if not really too strong.

Eighteen was a tough time,

when the two flowers did not quite rhyme.

My me was yet minty fresh,

none of the black and strangled mesh.

My larynx but, belonged to a long lost child,

it sounded definitely rather cute than too wild.

I waited for it to hit,

even if it were bit by bit.

Now, that it did not,

my folks had another help brought.

Slipped in the coloured pills of wonder,

for estrogen to rent asunder.

The mesh indeed developed an abode,

the entire thing, my friends, was quite an episode.

Little breast buds began to bloom,

my bosom was an only room,

for their blossom, I continually ranted,

nevertheless, it was not something I could own, as if for granted.

After infinite long, have I finally bled,

well, not a tear did I this time shed.

My voice now has a cymbal tinge,

it was mine, I’d say if ever asked to impinge.

And one fine fine day,

I would again sprawl by the bay.

And then wait for the rising sun

to trumpet wide and clear that I, dear all, have finally turned twenty-one.