and i’m homesick.

i see a child periodically,

all in a time frame from three months to two years of age.

he grows and learns how to say my name.

children grow so much in the blink of an eye,

so much that it makes us melancholy.

children learn the alphabet,

grow inch by inch,

develop fixations and passions.

proven testaments to how our children change.

when we become an adult,

physical evidence of such things are not commendable

nor really can we understand it.

it takes longer for us to change physically than it does a child

and when it exhibits itself

society frowns on us.

how dare we let our appearance change?

i can't blame myself for hating change.

it's not celebrated as an adult. 

no one praises you for how you suddenly started to eat healthy

or fully got over your lousy ex partner.

change is a weighted word in an adult context,

but is never uttered in the context of a child.

children are encouraged to grow,

if they don't,

they are taken to a doctor for a check up.

adults can grow.

but it seems to be always done in a secret underground cave.

when change has that unfamiliar sense to me,

i can’t seem to understand what street intersection i’m at, 

my dependency of people rises in my spirit.

in these murky incidents,

there’s nothing more i want to do

than scream in the middle of the night 

crying of these growing pains 

like i once did when i was seven. 

outside in this unfamiliar climate

she remains alone and humiliated

stirring in these confusing sensibilities 

with a smile plastered on a sunny face.