My heart is as old as the season we enter:
Lonesome and cold and bleak as December.
I kindle up flames to struggle for warmth
In the face of unending blizzards and storms.
I don’t want to be old anymore, that’s the thing,
But it’s what I had wanted ever since spring.
Now I’m not even there yet and I can’t stand the way
My body slows down and my feelings decay.
But I didn’t grow up either, it’s all paradox:
I can’t leave my old room and my mountain of socks.
I think about death but get crushes like a boy
As I disappear slowly, like sadness and joy.
I used to think I was smart, so why can’t I remember
Which door leads away from this endless December?