I have asked you a few times before,
Every year I turn older, I pose the same question,
“Do I look my age?
Will I still pass as a teenager?”
You will always tell me that I look younger,
I will always look younger than I am,
But it seems like people will not mistake it,
And I’ve asked myself why.
I still look young, my skin and my smile look young,
It’s in my genes and disposition,
But I wouldn’t pass for a young lady anymore,
That’s right, I’ve grown too cynical.
And I realized I’ve been swallowed whole,
By this system and inescapable cycle,
Where I became just another pawn,
To another man who claimed the system earlier.
It’s seldom that people escape,
I’ve seen it happen, everywhere I look.
Is the survival of, not really the fittest,
But the crafty and those who were lucky.
It robs people’s childhood, earlier every time.
Sucking life, strength and time,
Rewarding you with traps disguised as luxury,
Always taking, never giving.
I guess it is obvious to identify,
People who are sick with this game,
But I know it’s not yet hopeless,
To aim for something better.