Fickle PhobiaMature

A bitter moment when faced with growing up.

Alas, I am bitter

It seems that, as my comrades and I grow older

a fickle sense of adulthood has arisen

which grips us in a blind embrace and 

feeds a hunger for traditions

deemed worthy of drab souls

Such is the world of proper clothes and language and actions

Behaviors of men who act for others

in which all is meaningless but nonetheless sought for

in hope that it pulls one a step closer to the success of confidence or job 

or woman, too often the conceded ones

who pull on the necks of the most groomed and primed  as one might bid on the best pig at a showing

Men have left behind boyish smiles, spontaneous and nonsensical imaginations, the ability to love in humble wholehearted purity

They suffocate themselves with societal talents of manhood and suffer themselves with neurotic arrogance

Call me bitter! Call me false! Call me angst and anger and flailing depression

I am past the display of superficial ambition

I am done with fucking the world in some misguided embrace of maturity

Who do you dance for if not those watching?

Why do you cook if not for hopeful romance?

Who do you dress for if not the joy of attention?

Why do you work so hard if not for material and pride and success in the eyes of others?

Who do you tease at with humorous negativity, for dominance and power and confidence in yourself?

Why do you live if not for the shallow embrace of others who would dismiss you if you sunk in submission?

Call me wrong! Call me foolish! Call me a judge.

Tell me you dance for movement

Tell me you cook for flavor

Tell me your dress for yourself

Tell me you work for meaning

Tell me your tease is innocent

Tell me you live for life and meaningful, whole embrace

Leave this page and dismiss me

Tell me I am confused and dark

Tell me I am bitter.

The End

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