RoseAnn V. Shawiak
Growing up is painful - it is killing me.
There are no directions to point me the right way.
Spinning crazily like a magnet in the north pole - my life gyrates with no control.
Trying to head in every direction at once - I end up standing still.
There are no cures - no remedies for growing up.
Each day begins a new day - each day we fill a brand new cup.
There are no set rules from A to B.
Everyone tries haphazardly to keep themselves alive, amidst all the noise and craziness.
There's not a soul alive with the answers to the questions of maturity.
We all strive for this something we call growing up - and yet we know little or nothing about it.
How can we be so stupid, trying to attain an impossibility while making every attempt to live our lives?
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Comments about this poem (Growing Up by RoseAnn V. Shawiak )
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