I opened my box,
Turned the ****,
Hand and feet on position
And danced to the music.

Sometimes, the music is joyous.
Sometimes, it is melancholic.

I am waiting for the day
When I don't have to turn the ****
To hear music.

And I am waiting for the day
I finally outgrow my enclosure.

Your age doesn't represent your maturity
And it doesn't have to.
Act as young or as old as you please.
Just know when to grow up

I saw someone fall in love again.
Said his heart danced
to a different beats-per-minute than before.
It smelled of pressed jasmine and maturity
compared to cotton candy kisses and butterfly wings.

I asked why does he keep comparing?

He said
The first love's immaturity is a gate
To the next one's finesse.

I am advanced in years
but living many years
does not make me either wise or mature
does not make me advanced
as a person, as a man.

I have known some old fools
and in some ways
(I hate to say it)
sometimes I am one.

I would rather escape
(and I can think of so many ways to do so)
than to live in pain
(my own or someone else’s)
but that is what life is.
Yes, it is true:

Life IS difficult.

Accepting that is one of the hardest things to do.
But it is what real maturity is.
Being down from hurt, pain, and wounds
and just standing up and walking anyway.

I see bumper stickers and signs that say:
“Wounded warrior”
The people who I know
who are the walking wounded
are the beautiful people.
They carry their pain with a crooked, sad smile
as if to say:
"Yes, life is a *****,
but here I am walking through it.
Not so much getting over it
as getting through it.
And Baby, here I am, I am getting through it.
I’m still standing.
I might be limping,
but by God, I’m walking.
I’m walking into today and tomorrow.
And that’s something."

I’ve heard it said:
“Faith is simply to trust the real
and to trust that God is found within it.”
When I have this kind of faith
I’m being mature.
I’d rather be advanced in that way
than to simply be advanced in years.

“Maturity,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier

it’s
cutting your hair
and packing your bags,
it’s drinking champagne
in your best pair of jeans.
it’s
growing out bangs,
unbuttoning shirts –
to think yours had been closed up to the
throat, all these years –
and everything, all white.
it’s
sunburned noses
and no makeup, it’s
less backward glances
and more plans
for the future.
it’s holding a conversation
and making eye contact,
it’s meeting a man
and letting your feet
grow roots.
it’s
more music, less running,
more danger, and more safety,
and it’s
finally, having a taste
for the classics.