It's like a tattoo on my forehead.
"This child is mature and so responsible."
I used to be proud of it, and sought the phrase so eagerly:
"Look at you, so mature."
"Wow, you're so mature for your age!"
Then, I realised—once I found myself alienated—
as though I spoke a language they'd never learned.
I began to find my friends' jokes unfunny.
Now, I want the childhood with endless laughter back—
I want the wind whipping through my hair as I ran in a playground race,
the sting of scraped knees.
Oh, how I wish the burden would lift.
Not this feeling of dread and my "mature" mind.
Yet, I still go to school,
I still trudge to class every weekday,
I still go through the motions under the pretense of a childhood.
Why do I feel as though I'm merely
a philosopher,
poet,
trapped in a child's body?
Feb 13
Feb 13, 2026 at 2:35 PM UTC
It's like a tattoo on my forehead.
"This child is mature and so responsible."
I used to be proud of it, and sought the phrase so eagerly:
"Look at you, so mature."
"Wow, you're so mature for your age!"
Then, I realised—once I found myself alienated—
as though I spoke a language they'd never learned.
I began to find my friends' jokes unfunny.
Now, I want the childhood with endless laughter back—
I want the wind whipping through my hair as I ran in a playground race,
the sting of scraped knees.
Oh, how I wish the burden would lift.
Not this feeling of dread and my "mature" mind.
Yet, I still go to school,
I still trudge to class every weekday,
I still go through the motions under the pretense of a childhood.
Why do I feel as though I'm merely
a philosopher,
poet,
trapped in a child's body?
