Questions Of Maturity Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Growing up is painful, killing me when a teenager.
There are no directions to point the way.
Spinning crazily like a magnet in the north pole,
life gyrates with no control.
Trying to head in every direction at once, ending
up, standing still.
There are no cures, no remedies for growing up.
Each day begins anew, each day we fill a brand new
cup.
There are no set rules from A to B, everyone tries
haphazardly to just keep themselves alive, amidst
all the noise and craziness.
There's not a soul alive with the answers to
questions of maturity, we all strive for this some-
thing we call growing up, yet we know little or
nothing about it.
How can we be so ignorant, trying to attain an
impossibility, while making every attempt to live
our lives.