Bloody Mature

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?

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