Why is it
That we define one's stupidity
By their examination grades?
By the amount of time it takes them to solve a math problem?
By the lack of confidence with which they speak?
Why is it
that we do not define one's intelligence
By their questions,
By the way they understand how we all function,
By the things they wish to learn?
Why is it
We judge one another by the scores of our school years,
As opposed to the million thoughts that cross our minds?
Have you ever met someone
Who is as smart as all of their professors combined,
But they can't seem to know a **** thing about the world?
The world itself.
No, not biology; geography; or astrology,
But the things that make us all people.
The things that cause us to feel;
To hurt;
To smile;
To cry.
The things that make us think,
Think about what should have turned out differently,
Or what shouldn't have.
The things that make us wonder,
Wonder about why none of us can seem to get a break.
Stupidity should be judged by how much you question,
and the things you question.
If you do not ask questions,
What do you really learn?

I think I'm afraid of you.
I think I must be.
Afraid of how I don't feel unsafe
when you say things that used to make me cringe
Afraid of how I in fact smile when you say those things.
Afraid of how I've never been afraid of you.
I guess what I'm trying to say;
Or what I've already said,
Is that I'm afraid of scary you're not,
Of how scary this isn't,
And how scared I'm not.
Maybe I've just never felt this comfortable before.

The world is yours
I want for the sound of those words to ring in my eardrums.
Because in honesty,
When you are told this by someone of importance in your life,
They don't mean the true world, the one we all live in.
They mean their world.
They mean my world.
Our world, just ours.
Somewhere I can really be important in
Somewhere I can really matter
Somewhere I can feel safe
The world is yours*
To hate; to love
To live in
To be free
To feel a feeling that is so overwhelming charging with ecstasy
That your arms; your legs; your stomach;
every part of your body seems as if it has just been
shocked, revived, jolted.
Because the world is yours
Your world has finally become your own; you have become
so important in someone's life that...they gave it to you.

The real world* they say
Why is that world so real?
What makes it different?
The trees?
The water?
The air?
No, that's not what you mean.
The feelings.
Yes, that is what you mean.
I do not know of serious emotions
because I am young.
I am young and inexperienced.
Love?
I'm merely a child!
A child feeling love?
Preposterous.
I know nothing of the sort.
I may have loved my parents, my grandparents, my friends
But no. I do not understand love.
Stress?
I'm merely a child!
A child being stressed?
Unheard of.
I know nothing of the sort.
Sure, my sanity, my grades, my happiness may be
slipping through my fingers.
But no. I do not understand stress.
Depression?
I'm merely a child!
A child being clinically depressed?
Impossible.
I know nothing of the sort.
Maybe I am too sad to get out of bed some days,
maybe I am in love with hating myself.
But no. I do not understand depression.
These emotions.
These issues,
to say the least.
They all contribute to this real world of yours.
But that world is for adults.
That world is for those who are mature enough to understand.
That world is for the middle-aged man,
Drunk and jobless, throwing his life away for the liquor cabinet.
That world is for the overworked business woman,
Bothered by her children, the children just desperate for love.
That world is for those who live
That world is for those who *experience
That world is not for me.
Nor you.
Nor the child in the treatment center.
Because we are young.