The lament of aging youth


We’re that kind of old…

Where we are but we’re not
But we’re expected to be
Yet not treated like we are.

Youth is less who we are
And more what we have
That we’re slowly losing.

And we act like we want to lose it
Even though we know when it’s gone
We’ll just want it back.

We’re that kind of old…


Where the responsibility
We’ve always craved
Becomes our day to day.

Where our friends are getting married
And having babies
And we’re not.

But we’re strong and independent
And making our way in the world
While secretly wishing we weren’t.

We’re that kind of old…

Where calling ourselves mature
Automatically means we aren’t
Which is frustrating.

But maturity comes with baggage
We don’t really want to claim
At least not yet.

So we exist in this limbo
This purgatory of our own making
And find a way to creep into wisdom.

We’re that kind of young…

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