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.