At seventeen I am almost grown.
Almost old enough to own a home of my own.
Yet, i remain viewed as young, naive.
Told I am too young to know what i believe.
At seventeen the world drowns me in a sea of questions it doesn't want the answers to.
At seventeen everyone thinks they know whats best for me,
"....grow up, be a part of your society."
Don't worry about happiness that's a selfish priority.
"...grow up."
But at seventeen its hard to differentiate between hopes and reality.
It's sad you can do anything you believe,
but i fear it's a lie, we've all been teased.
The proof?
On the streets.
An endless stream of people who've had their dreams seized.
I dread the thought of this stream consuming me.
Me?
Me?
At seventeen I don't know if I am me.
Or just everything that's ever been crammed down my throat into a part of my brain I cant pronounce.
At seventeen I've fallen down a rabbit hole.
The queen of hearts pounding me with every cliche ideal every adult has told me to believe.
The white rabbit screaming to me the time.
17..18..19
I just want to leave.
I am only seventeen.
But if not this rabbit hole where?
Just a new nightmare?
Filled with symbolism I should get.
Things I should know.
Seventeen is plenty of time to grow...
grow up.
But I am only seventeen.
I am only seventeen.
Am only seventeen.
Only seventeen.
Seventeen.
I am seventeen.
At seventeen the world says I am almost grown.
At seventeen I am scared to have a home of my own.
At seventeen I question everything I ever knew.
But remain unchanged.
Remain floating through life without a clue.