I'm a high school student and this is from a poem I wrote called Sometimes He Wonders. You may split it into different parts if you'd like - right now I'll put it as Unsorted.
And He feels so incredibly weak when he has ferociously quarreled against them since his genuine years and has lost. His hopes for a better understanding dissipate as he grows older, and his mind grows less eager to reach a verdict. Having no sense of direction, he roams here, looking above, asking futile questions, even though the answers may be feared. Good by nature, he has learned his survival skills, which will lead him into the real world, and will someday make him a successful individual. Wishing the pressure did not exist, it is a natural instinct to adapt and not to recluse. He rather is a mindless drone than a lonely Hermit, after all. He has no control over his environment, it is the exact opposite. Molded and shaped by his surroundings, he seeks about for himself and his purpose, while this mold slowly deteriorates organic matter.
Quotes, by Manuel Monne