We huddled in that transformed trailor,
Words warmed our lips
but my heart kept cold.

Questions were posed,
The issues were profound:
The Meaning of Life, the Purpose of Sorrow, etc.
but my mind stayed silent.

I became complacent in that place
Between question and answer
but a low grumble grew

It grew inside my chest, I tell you!
It fought to surpass the cage of my ribs
It cried out through my very flesh,
“The truth is quiet! The truth is quiet!”

I wanted to be better than what
I’ve become. Like maybe a
real individual: An intellectual
in a burgundy bathrobe.

I would have specs
and impressive novels to peer
into the future with.

But I am just the same as
yesterday. They say I’m an
adult, but my robe is still
hot pink. My glasses are still
plastic. My novels are still
popular fiction.

All that I have become is underdeveloped.

To cry and cry until
I drown in my tears
Or scream and scream
Until I frighten my fears

To work harder than everyone
And be perfect
At hiding what I’ve become

To forget what they say
And be just
Like them anyway

I will sleep in sweet unsound
Until the sun again goes down,
Then once more must I rise
To live and deal in lies.

And I am a liar and I am a cheat,
And I will do wrong and I will compete,
And there’s nothing special, righteous, or pure,
In this, Oh, my soul! and Earth holds no cure.