The Bump

I was talking to the bump last night; the bump hasn’t got a name It might be one or t’other, either’s fine Explaining through your mother how we play the waiting game How she’s giving of herself to make you mine

15 Years of age

When I was fifteen years of age there wasn’t a thing I didn’t know Now I don’t know half of what’s going on At fifteen years of age you start unlearning as you go Until all the things you think you know are gone