We are warriors painted as children.
We've fought since we were born.
Our ax and sword tied to our mind
upon which our lives were sworn.
We carry the weight of the world we do,
in the hood of our favorite cloak.
It doesn't weigh us down but chokes us still,
making speechless words cease being spoke.
Our wrists are tied by invisible webs
wrapped in logic and basic understanding.
But they're spun by spiders outside our heads
that our structured world's demanding.
What can we expect from them?
Their eyes coat our heads like brandy.
They say,
“Speak up,”
“Shut up,”
“You talk too much,”
Or whatever words are handy.
Is it just you and I?
Me and you?
Us?
Could be, perhaps, maybe.
One day I hope there will be more than two.
And the next child like us will be
our baby.
We will Die young as late as possible.