You hate where you’re at, in a great hurry to, in one day, grow out of it
But to become what, you worry, when you, someday, grow out of it?

Concerned that others are advancing, steadily marching forward
And you’re stuck in place, stunted and lost, unable to grow out of it

There are flashes of another fear, the uncertainty and doubt
For what you’ll leave behind and lose, when you finally grow out of it

All the impatience and anxiety, I feel them in a different way
Where will I be left, I wonder, when you finally grow out of it?

You have no control over almost anything, it’s true, but it’s also true
That you’ll always be you, which will always be special, so why would you want to grow out of it?