To Be Something

It'd be nice to say this was written in second grade so you can picture blocky letters sprawled awkwardly on lined page, but sadly my pen touched this paper when I was eighteen. Legally called an adult as if that made life less frightening. I have the papers and a diploma, a card that says I can drive, plastic to fill a wallet and identify in the case I don't survive the head on crash of stubbornness and maturity. Redefining the ideas that once seemed concrete to me. No one tells you growing up there are no markers in the world to guide like your mom made you come home before it got darker than the day that Bambi taught you people get shot in the distant. It took you thirteen more years to find that death can happen in an instant. In this midst of this violent birth and advancing nonexistence, we find that once you have something to say it's hard to make them listen. Conditioning suggests it's their reactions that shape us, but it seems to be the case their reactions will sustain us, since playing in the walls of a cluttered mind was fine for this many years, the crumbs we left to not get lost have fed oh so many fears.
Don't you try and say that you know me.
Even if you're right, I'll say you're wrong.
I'll denounce it with a confidence I can't find in anything else.
Do accusations even belong?