8-year Olds, We All Are.

Immature is a person,

the heart impoison;

Be it for you,

It now breaks in two.

"Okay" is what I am,

I'll never be as good as them;

Hard as I try,

I'll only end up in a cry.

Best friend, best friend.

Why do you call me that?

For when the other comes,

The spotlight, dim it becomes.

Like I said,

"Okay" is what I am.

"Too busy" is a term,

Used by those who squirm;

For them you have time,

Time for me is a crime.

What is it about me?

Too young to love,

too fragile to hurt.

You, who comes and go,

who makes me glow;

Constantly breaking me heart,

To make us grow apart.

Stop, please. I beg you to stop. Immature as I am, I still think of things, especially these things. Tell me you still like me, tell me you want us together after the exams. Or not, stop. End it. Just come up to me and say, "it's over."

To let go is a step,

To hold on is a misstep.

What are your words over his?

I'll get over it eventually,

As long as the hold doesn't pull me back.