How many times do I have to know?
If knowing means to grow
But I---strong belief in my word---hate growing
Does it stop myself from the concept of knowing?
Adults are TROUBLESOME!
Gross, annoying, weird, restless like ghost
Boring, feared, reckless---dosed with goals
You name all of it
Some are workaholic
Some doubled-time as sonic
Some are dumb and lazy
Some are numb and busy
Others are creepy
Others prefer to be sleepy
Others failed
Others succeed
And when they face real---Yes! I said real-life challenges
With different copes, they proceed
They might want revenge
Revenge to whom? To themselves?
You don't understand, do you?
That's how complicated, complex, puzzled, MESSED UP adulthood is
My childhood is the one I miss
I can't just say, "It is what it is."
If being an adult means to lose one condition
The condition that isn't next to addiction
A condition of joy will be gone
When life hits harder and it isn't fun
I miss myself being me
The way I don't understand a single thing
Whenever I ignore things and just let them to be
Harmful to me. I don't flinch because I don't know a thing
The time when I play hide and seek overnight
To be hidden by the seeker's sight
Whenever I play toy car
And race with other kids no matter how far
I miss how hardheaded I was
To play outside without eating
Just to feel the joy fast
Didn't mind whether my knees are hurting
But then, what happens now?
I tried to find myself
My past, innocent, joyful self
The time's just irreversible
I tell you what happens now
I work overtime, overnight
So money won't leave my sight
I became the hider and the seeker of my own game
A feeling of envy grew within me
Seeing other people achieved the things I can't afford
The cars they have are luxury
While my dream is up until words
Being hardheaded now?
There's only one person who can scold me
Not mom, not dad, not relatives, but just me
If ever I fail, all hands will be pointed to me
I hate it.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I really... hate it.
I hate it---growing up.
It's like a rose picked out from a garden.
Where the garden is its comfort zone.
Deprived of the right to have fun.
Eventually, its petals begins to wilt, one by one.
How many times do I have to know?
It all began with a sow
I am alone in this single planted row
Growing up, becoming a coward to grow.
YOU ARE READING
WE ARE COWARDS
Poetry"A coward of life Once a warrior of challenge Pacifist of strife." A collection of free verse poems made up of fears. These poems have varying perspectives of these coward people, which teaches us that being a coward doesn't makes us less of an indi...
