Poems of a mended artist.

Adult?

I'm not an adult. 

not mentally, not physically, not scientifically. 

I'm a minor. 

I'm a child. 

But I should act like an Adult, 

I should keep my mouth shut, I'm a child.

I should speak up about things that aren't right and tell someone, but 

I should shut up, I'm not old enough to understand. 

I should be more grateful, I'm fed, watered, and have a roof over my head. 

I should do more to help, I'm old enough.

I should be more responsible, I'm going to be on my own soon.

I should think about my future, it's coming fast. 

I should enjoy right now, it won't last. 

I should have more fun, I only have a few more years. 

I should act less like a kid, I'm not a small child. 

I should take care of all my chores, my pets, dinner, but 

I should not butt into Adult conversations. 

I should listen and not hear and see but never watch and know but not answer and hear but not listen and watch but not see and answer even when I don't know. 

I should be..

everything I'm not, everything I am, and everything I could be, should be, can be, can't be. 

I'm lazy.

I'm not open to my family anymore.

I'm acting too immature. 

I'm being too nice. 

I'm being too mean. 

I'm being too annoying. 

I'm being too needy. 

I'm breathing. 

I'm eating. 

I'm walking. 

I'm sitting. 

I'm existing. 

I should do more to help. 

I should play around more. 

I should be kind. 

I shouldn't be so gullible. 

I shouldn't  be so independent. 

I shouldn't be scared to exist. 

And yet I'm the problem. 

not the one who said all of this. 

not the one confusing every thought in my head. 

I. 

I am the problem.