16 Poem by Georgia Hindmarch

Tomorrow I am sixteen
I will be a year older, a year wiser, they say
Supposedly, anyway...
I don't see how a feeble number defines that.

Unprepared, I am
For the pressure, the responsibility
Of being this tender age...
It is such an awful number.

When I was a lot younger
I wished and dreamed and prayed
For this momentous occasion...
Looking back I wish I hadn't.

Why must everything change?
Why am I suddenly older? Responsible?
Does a year really change that much?

Take me back.