I can see you there,
Your head tilted slightly upwards,
Your hands are carelessly tucked into your pockets.
Your trainers and socks
Are tied neatly into your jeans.

Your shoulders are
Slightly hunched forward,
Which hints more than slightly
At the anger simmering within.
I can hear you screaming,
"I'm only 15!"

But in this moment, under the bus stop's sheltering grace,
I see more than rebellion etched on your face.
A plea for understanding, a silent cry,
To be seen, and heard,
Never just passing by.
In the bus's hiss and the city's hum,
Your youth clashes with
The unrelenting beat of the world's drum.
Everywhere you stand,
Everywhere you look,
There's a curse.
A protest in every step you take,
On the bus, or the train,
Or on the long walk home,
Against a reality you're forced to face,
Whether you're 14 or 15.
And you are old enough to
Simply know better.
Yet, the world demands perfection,
Expecting you to fit a mold,
To conform to a standard.

But you're a wild and untamed soul,
A force of nature,
Resisting the world's attempts to tame you.
Your anger, your frustration,
They're a cry for help,
A plea for recognition,
An assertion of your unique identity.
You're not just a number,
Not just a statistic,
You're an individual,
With a voice that deserves to be heard.
So, keep fighting, keep speaking your truth,
Don't let the world silence you.
Your voice is a beacon of hope,
A reminder that we are all unique,
And that our voices matter.