Sour Milk in the Sunshine

Too cluttered desk - wood frail and bitter
Papers stretch against the grain,
When did I become an adult?
How did I become?
Was the path righteous - by my standards?
When are my standards the right standards? Always.

I'll keep scribbling these ink-blotted words on loose leaf.
Not for any reason besides to stare at paper instead of a linear clock.
Our clock may look circular but it is a straight line.
Turn around, dammit! Don't head back but look back, reach back, pry those mistakes.
Remember the moans and "Oh my God!"'s - can't happen again
When did I become an adult? Or am I still a child?