They tell me I’m too young. 

Too young to know

about the horrors of the world.

Too young 

to make decisions of my own. 

Too young 

to be thinking at the level I am. 

Too young 

to hear about politics. 

Too young 

to be worrying about the things I worry about. 

They tell me I have an old soul. 

They tell me I think like a 32 year old. 

They tell me to stop worrying, 

stop talking about the things I talk about. 

They tell me that the things I like are stupid. 

And they wonder why I don’t ever talk to them.