Immature in the form of a Song.

You know, it’s funny

People know exactly who they want to be.

They have shaped this ideal person in their heads,

From the color she paints her nails in winter to the clothes she will wear during fall.

And we think about the very person when we mess up.

We think about how she would laugh away the stress,

Her reaction to exactly the situation that may arise.

That person is the version of themselves that they want to be.

So Happy. So Kind. Always Carefree.

We know we are a poem about April.

But we feel we are a poem about April, written in March.

We’ve tried hard to be the perfect person,

That somewhere down the road

We’ve forgotten how to be ourselves

Here’s to our pillars of strength

Rocks that give us support

Thank you for the light when we were on a road of darkness

Thank you for the pull when we thought we needed the push

Thank you for being the blood when we considered you to be the water.

Thank you for not letting us grow in the same soil that poisoned us

They are not our medicine

But our realization towards emotions.

They make us feel joy,

Happiness,

Sadness,

And everything in between.

Here’s to being thankful for me, and you. Here’s to people that grow.

Here’s to people who are Immature in the form of a Song.