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MaturityGrowing up means growing down,deeper into the earthuntil we are six feet under.Maturity is not a badge of honour,because the gleaming golden trophy belongs to those who willpunch and kick and undercut,while the mature must settle for quietly consoling themselvesin their celebrated capacity for emotional abuse.Perhaps we should be proud of our blank name,Our battered and broken selves,tucked neatly away into unacceptably present bodies.And yet nothing can heal that,the most crushing of lonelinesswhen one is wrested from the label under whichthey once took solace.Call me barbaricCall me overlargeCall me the unwanted moss on an otherwise manicured treeBut never call me yours.I am mine,mature,but never tamed.
DarkI don’t want to be aloneI don’t want to be with themCan I stay here in the dark?Can the silence be my friend?Tell me what I’ve got to loseTell me why I need to tryIf there’s nothing going onCan’t I let the days pass by?With the lights out there is peaceThere is warmth and there is calmThere is nothing else outsideHere I know I’ll carry onMaybe I should move alongBlaze a trail and make my markBut if nothing is worthwhileCan’t I stay here in the dark?