Still Children

We are still the children painting pictures to hang on the fridge,

but now it's too late to start over.

Too late to pick a different color.

Every stroke is a different future and every drop a different reality.

The fridge is full of regrets and the temperature is rising.

Ice cream trucks have become cop cars,

Pixy Stix have become alcoholism,

and riding your bike has become staying home and raging wars inside your head.

We are still the children yelling sticks and stones may break my bones,

but now we know words can always hurt you.

We still want so desperately to make a genuine human connection,

To belong.

Like our first day of school.

The only difference is that now we know the consequences

This poem is about: 
Our world


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741