We talk, often enough,
about not growing up
partially because we don't want to,
partially because we know we have to
and we're scared because we haven't.

We look at the kids
(if we can still call them kids)
a year, two years older than us
and say,
“****.”

And all I ever say is "****", really,
because I haven't grown up
and that's not a bad thing
if you don't mind reading
poetry by a sailor.

We get jobs,
and say we earn a living
finally,
but movies the odd time
and fast food some days
isn't exactly a life.

Our parents still have to
pick us up from parties
when we're drunk
(because adults do it)
and we feel older
because we can almost
(almost) handle the taste of alcohol.

We're in this phase
(phase is the adult word, see, progress)
where we give a ****,
(I mean genuinely care)
about how adults look at us
but the important question is
why are they always looking at us?

Do they think they're looking in a mirror,
and all they can say is
“****”?
And all they can say is “****”, really,
because they wish they didn't grow up,
and how it's a bad thing,
because they know bigger
(more sophisticated) words,
yet they still talk like sailors;
but it's not  too bad a thing
because they have this word,
“phase”,
and they know it's just one of those,
whatever the **** that means.