...On Being That New Teen...

So, I'm only thirteen, and
There's not much I've seen, and
I flip channels for ideas, and
Discuss the world with my peers, and
We think we know some stuff, but
What we know isn't much, but
Since I'm only thirteen not much should be enough, and
My experiences shouldn't be so tough, but

I entered this contest to see what I could do, a few rhymes I'd composed,
Written them and read them, edited, wrote, and re-wrote.
Gotta get the lines just right.
Slammed them for my friends, my enemies, some teachers and mentors, mom and dad;
All of them, co-collaborators in this performance battle of ours, and
I marched alongside my thoughts and feelings right onto the frontlines of this word war.
I entered battle armed only with my notebook and mighty pen tucked deep down in my knapsack.

Almost had to lie about my age just to enlist.

Thirteen, damn...Can almost still count it on one hand...Shit...

Never expected to be respected by the college freshman to my left, the high school seniors to my right.
Left, left, left-right-left, as we march in-step, in unison, in rhythm with each other.
The old guard accepts me, even if I'm not quite as wise.
I can't help but be shocked and amazed by the worldly knowledge possessed by these beings,
These experienced artisans of this craft we call performance.

My eyes glaze over in awe as one soldier charges into battle,
Rat-ta-tat-tatting metaphor after hot metaphor,
The letters and words spit from her larynx penetrate her enemies flesh as a searing knife does through warm butter,
Clutching the microphone shaped grenade in her right hand, pulling the pin as she releases mic from mic stand,
She moves, purposefully, gracefully, behind her prey.
Her beautifully dangerous brown eyes target the hapless victim as my blood coarses furiously through my young veins,
My tongue starts to salivate, my lips tremble with anticipation as I sense this lyrical feud is coming to an end,

She doesn't hesitate,

Her
Kill
Shot
Is
Deadly...

Reaching down deep within her backpack she pulls out in one breath a simile sickle,
Slicing down her enemy in one swift blow
Rendering him speechless,
Leaving me seatless as I rise off my chair in uproarious applause, an appreciative ovation for a battle well calculated.

Damn, I'm thirteen, and
Awed by my competitors, and
Supported by my friends, and
Respected by my enemies, but
My co-writers and co-poets amaze me.

We talk after the war, over pepperoni covered pizza,
About the battle we entered,
How we fought,
What to pack for next time,

Damn, we're thirteen,
Wanting desperately to emulate the seasoned veterans of this craft we call performance,
But marching alongside them none-the-less.