When can I yell at everyone and tell them
to grow up,
and out of the useless skeletons they’re sitting in,
and move their butts to the rhythm of hard work
and weathered hands and olden-day
plantations, and to stain their hands with the bloood
that’s scattered on their hands.
When can I yell at myself to wake up
from the cave of ignorance
and blissful shadows that I am hiding underneath,
when will I stop feeling like a shame
and a bag full of dust and wobbly stain.
When will I have the confidence
to dare and crouch down on my knees
and scrape the stains of guilt that tarnish
my heart and my fatty skeleton,
when will I scour the cellar of cries
and feel the pain.
When will someone tell me that it’s okay
to shriek at everyone while
pulling my hair out witchily,
Let’s all be Bloody Mature, for once,
When will everyone stop treating my illness as a simple ‘phase’? When will God bless my accursed, rotten, filthy mouth with the answers to the stream of questions that flow out like a stream of inpotable drinking water?