Growing up is getting old and so am I,
aching, the straining fails to let me forget
as rust solidifies a lock over my childhood
cementing juvenile regrets, too young
to mend with calloused hands;
I hold my pencil too tight.
The pages scream frantic remembrance
as I fill more holes with formulas,
scrapping premature wrinkles
as I pretend I can divide into happiness
with nothing for denomination.