Poetry

Grown Up

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I mean, am I actually,
Really competent at anything?
How does it feel to be a grown up?
To know, I mean really know,
That you’re not bluffing,
That you have a handle,
That you know how to read the map the right way round?
To navigate the maze and treat
All things in the proper way they deserve–
Tell me–will I ever master anything?
I keep hearing about potential,
But what good is it if it’s never realised?
Is authority–the right to speak and have others listen–
Just on the other side of that door?
I mean, I fear the floundering,
The floating through the world and
Doing nothing hitherto undone,
And of being content with that.
I’ve only got a couple dozen thousand days
To become someone!
But who am I becoming?
How am I becoming?
Through what means will I become this
Man you say I am?
I want it.
I don’t want to bluff.
I can’t afford to.
Maybe the world can’t afford me to.
I’m just sick of being pretty good at most things
And above average in others–
I want to excel.
I want to grow up.

10 April 2015

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