You are draped over a chair
Painful beams of sunlight sting your eyes
There are books you have taken with you
From all the running around, the errands,
Growing up had exposed the grown ups
And their grown up powers as a charade/sham
You no longer trust it to hold you
It’s almost amusing to you
That you can look at it as an outsider
And sigh over your mother worrying about her children
But you don’t think a life like that can be yours
To be spent worrying over children
Or maybe the result of too much economics
Seeing children as commodities
As being stockpiled and herded
The profanity of it made you even learn up the formula
To scandalise your parents
Sometimes you think ideas are all very well
But the very fact that we are skin and flesh and bones
Make the expression of ideas so very violent, so cathartic.
You are tired, you can hardly bear to move.
The world spins in and out of your sight.
You are young still, though not as young as you used to be.
There are books to be written,
And there are dreams to be plucked out of thin air.