You are five and
You think adults are crazy.
Somehow they are all
Knowing and yet
They don't understand when
The booboo hurts or
The vegetables are too bitter.
Somehow they think that
Every little girl wants
Pink sheets and plushed toys
And a shiny, gold tiara on
Their dainty, little heads.
They don't notice the cuts
On your hands or the
Action figures under your pillow.
Adults don't get it, you think.
They don't.
You are ten and
You try to be into
Pop idols and boy bands so
You can fit in.
Everyone tells you
To be yourself,
But it's a lie that
Everyone tells everyone
Because modesty and
Compliments are what
Leaves good impressions.
You've learned this when
You were seven,
When first graders suddenly
Seem like mines,
Ready to explode if you
Took the wrong step.
You go on youtube
And find out about Justin Bieber.
You try to memorize
His most famous song
But your eyes linger
On Vivaldi's piece in another tab.
You close it.
You are fifteen and
You think you are
More mature than what
You let on.
(Everyone's the same and
Proving them wrong leaves
A guilty victory in
Your chest.)
But despite the more
Serious articles you press
On facebook
Or your open mindedness
On subjects like politics or
Mental illnesses,
There is still that interest
On internet memes
And disney movies
That makes you feel like a kid.
You still are.
You are twenty and
There are many regrets
Hanging on your shoulders
(Like failing that math test
In highschool or being
Too invested in odd hobbies).
You hate your course and
There is not a night where
You sleep peacefully.
Sometimes, it would be
About that stupid report
Or that tiring plate;
But when the clock strikes at two
And all that's left in your mind
Is that nagging feeling
Ringing in your head,
You know it is bigger than
Words on paper
Or washed out colours
Or what you are.
It is.
You are twenty five and
Being in college is slightly better
Than looking for a job.
At least someone can tell you
Which direction to go to.
You don't have to keep
Making applications or
Worry about the bills in the
Apartment you're renting in.
You stare up the ceiling
And you close your eyes.
Today is cold and
A cup of hot chocolate sounds nice.
You don't really know
Who you are at this point except
For yourself.
There are pieces of identities
Scattered in your body
Like bruises and scars
And you never really know if
It is a bruise or a scar;
But you wait for it to disappear
(Even when you wish
It doesn't because being lost
Isn't a nice feeling),
And the wait is time
Used to find out who you really are.
Maybe you'll know soon.
(You will.)