TeenTimes:I am a child, hiding behind my 18 years

I am in a staring competition with a blank white page

Desperate to unearth the perfect word to launch the desecration

Looking for the words to preach of the majestic poet I'll claim to be

Of the didactic dreaming schemer dancing inside of me

Of the words they say might impress you so.

Of profundities, metaphors, allegories, and absurdities.

All to solemnly attest how bold and sage I grow.

But I know that it is a child that slouches back on the throne of my mind.

So I can only tell you what I'd like to say, what I feel, rather than what you may want to hear.

I'll spread my innocent folly beneath your feet.

"Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams." I play God with the lawnmower, holding wide sway over the scurrying life beneath the sweeping blades.

About three times a week I wish that I was Spiderman.

I thoroughly enjoy jumping in puddles and making overwhelming noises as the tidal waves roll.

I recently discovered just how difficult thoroughly is to spell: "thoroughly." I wore odd shoes to school for two months straight.

My ear doctor takes far too much pleasure from inserting awkwardly shaped instruments into my ear and has found it necessary to call me a "baba" on three separate occasions.

After years of defiance, I have finally accepted that it is impossible to look slick while:

1. Eating a banana or a sandwich (especially when cut triangularly);

2. Waiting for a lift from your mother, alone, in the rain;

3. Desperately running for the train, and missing said train;

4. Getting out of the back seat of a two-door car;

5. Throwing heavy logs;

6. Playing a horn instrument;

7. Looking for an overdue homework assignment in the cafeteria bin.

My best friend is the smelliest person I know - even by European standards.

I miss my tree house.

I draw on walls, chew grass and weep over spilt milk.

Whenever I think about driving, my mind turns to my trusty bike: bells, ribbons, and all.

I'm pretty sure my music teacher has fallen for me.

I masterfully misuse words and expressions.

Laughing inappropriately still seems funnier.

I know that I am not as good at anything as I think I am.

And yet, I am painfully aware that a clock is watching my every footfall.

I know that a shivering world is about to reveal itself.

But I am surely too young to cry.

Yet I remain defiantly enchanted with my enduring state of mind.

So should the day come when I awake bound to a suit and tie, clinging to a coffee cup, comparing Tchaikovsky with Mozart, and, God forbid, gazing serenely out at my garden growing; I will surely be too old to cry.

Then, I should fondly recall these, the "good ole' days", with a bemused smile - or an inappropriate laugh.

Matthew Shipsey (18) is a sixth-year student at Blackrock College, Dublin.

Articles of 500 words are welcome from teenagers. Send them to teentimes@irish-times.ie and include a phone number