You are nearing sixty and your arms are hurting.
Working in the blue collar industry tires you out
physically. Your body starts to ache, your muscles are not as good and your
entire demeanor/appearance starts to change.
You complain, saying that you’re older now. All the creaks
and cracks as your body protests unnerves you. You tell me I can’t understand.
I’m too young. Make full use of my youth. Stop wasting it by napping every day
and spending time cooped up by myself.
My body hurts from all the fits of tosses and turns when I
can’t sleep at night. My eyes are hurting from holding back so much tears since you tell me I need to be strong for you. My head is hurting from all the toxic,
disturbing thoughts. My heart, is in pain every single day as I try to force it
to accept reality.
I complain, saying a particular part of mine hurts. All the creaks and cracks as my body protests from abuse scares me. You tell me I’m not
at an age to complain. My body hurting is from the hours of computer usage and sleep though you have no idea that is how I relieve myself. You tell me that I’m
wasting my time by cooping up myself when you are the one who chained me
there. You refute all my complains by pointing it back to me. It is my fault that I turn out that way, my fault that I'm so tired, my fault that I'm hurting since I'm not strong enough. Can't it for once, not be my fault and be yours? Because the last time I checked, you're the reason I turned out this way. But no, you can never be at fault.
You've seen the ugly of the working world but you've not seen and get hurt by the ugly of the humans in this world. Cause why? You are a part of it yourself. The adults. You have no idea how scary you are. You tell us things but show us others. You made us as children, eager to grow up. But now that we know your true colours, we're forced to accept it. This adulthood.
Yes, I am eighteen years old. And according to you, I am not old enough to hurt but I am old enough to know how to stop hurting.
