I blame it on the sad cruelty of adults. They are the ones who think it is ok to hurt someone as long as it is all in good fun. They are the ones who started every war, never forget that. They are the ones who perpetuate the hate, the emotional torture, sometimes physical, that keeps all children locked up in their rooms, whether real or imaginary. They are the ones who sell everything and everyone for the right golden price. They like the idea of slaves, it sends them into predatory fits of ecstasy. They hate love if it is in any way different or unusual. They like everything to stay exactly the same way as before. They cheat and brag about it, calling it beating the odds. Adults, for the most part, are hideous creatures who are prone to violence, to calling people names, to using religion to justify everything from road rage to murder. And I’m not talking just about old people here—I’m talking about anyone who has no child left inside of them. There are plenty of old people who are on our side, who are still as beautiful as they can be, who believe in children’s voices to tell the truth, who are what I like to call Guardians. The difference between them and an adult is that an adult will not think twice before choosing to harm anyone else for whatever reason. A guardian will always choose kindness over hostility. Adults use kindness as a bargaining tool—Guardians bless us with kindness because they are its host. Adults turn their hearts on and off according to their sneaky whims. Guardians always have their hearts turned on brightly. Adults deal in judgments—Guardians deal in possibilities.
I really disliked adults a lot when I was a kid. They made me feel so creepily uncomfortable, not just in the way they looked at you, but in the way they blocked you, making you doubt yourself, making you scared all the time of the world and of everything moving around in it, holding you to some impossible high standard of living. Music was my beautiful salvation then, music and art, movies and cartoons, nature, books, dreaming, thinking. It all helped. I prayed to the Universe, the Great Spirit, all of the time for the courage to not submit myself to the ugly process at hand. It was hard. It would be so much easier to just go ahead and submit to the adults, let them change your head, let them turn you into one of them. They would give you a nice job, a nice house, a nice family of your own. They would make you a member of their nice church, where you could be sure to be better than those other nasty folks over there. You could drive a nice new shiny car to the Grand Canyon and take a picture of the sky and put it on your desk at work or hang it on the wall behind you like a true badge of a clean honorable way of living. What you couldn’t do was be yourself, make a mess, take a guess, have thoughts that were not the accorded ones, love someone who didn’t exactly look or act or smell like you. You’d have to live within your prescribed circle in order to be protected from the fierce beasts of excitability and uncertainty. Each day would be the same comforting scenario, but at least you would know what to expect in your comfortable circumstance. You could even wear a crazy tie and have tassels on your shoes and drink lots of mind numbing beer. And for this ordinary hell all you have to do is quit thinking outside of the box, join with the in crowd, and belong to the joyful land where TV is king. No thank you. I’ve made up my own mind a long time ago. You can keep your ice cream bribes to yourself. I want to be free. Dp, the poet