Age
I don’t think I’m very good at being young.
I stumble too much.
I fall too much.
My heart is pushed too much.
My face is lit up,
But my head is down.
I cry heavy.
My legs are too unsteady.
Weakness thrives in these arms,
I pull but it’s always too hard.
I say too much,
But don’t say anything at all.
My mind has yet to find direction,
And my fingers search for every affection
Only to find the thickest surface,
The coldest rooms
And every lovers empty speeches.
I shatter and I bruise easy.
I falter and grow bitter,
So my eyes are unfocused
And I refuse to look
At things meant to be
And the long line between
This time and all my dreams,
The struggle that will get me ready.
I think I’ll just wait,
Till my mind can read the signs
And find the road
That leads to all the things I need defined.
By then a silver shield would be devised
To protect and cover my chest
From the dagger in the hand of lies.
Right now my arrow always misses,
My punches hit underwater
And I’ve let the silver lining sinking.
I think I’d be better,
Much better at getting older.