This Old Child needs attention. It that how it is?
It’s a shame. I’m embarrassed. I meant no one harm.
Is it time I surrendered and be an adult?
Most grownups that I know act as if they’re a cult.
I apply for acceptance, but I must disarm
Subtle rigors of consciousness. It’s a tough quiz.
I still think that I’m dreaming this life that I live.
At profound disadvantage, I know but a part
Of the unfolding story. Others know it all
As they move with a swiftness where I can but crawl.
Uninsured innuendo is meant to impart
But small bits of the puzzle. This I must forgive.
Do I feel I’m that different and out of place
Among others who “get” things that I can’t conceive?
Does my aberrant youthfulness make me a fool
Among those who consider my tantrums a tool
That I use out of boredom? Am I that naïve
That I see life as something that I can’t embrace?
Are these questions that children ask just to annoy
Those who can’t help but hear them because they’re so loud?
My emotions aren’t pretty when out of control
And it causes severe detriment to my soul
Yet somewhere in my illness I feel somewhat proud
Of rare moments when I can exist in pure joy.