There's something very comfortable about childhood
Innocense, perhaps
or maybe the magic of running through an open feild without
a fucking care in the world
or being the first to wake up, and watching the sun rise,
or skipping rocks in a quaint pond
ankle-deep in clear blue existence.
However, a time does come when we loose our shoes
in life's current and it's jagged rocks cut our feet
the desire for an anesthesized life overcomes curiosity
and we walk away from the familiar pond
never looking back on the open fields we ran through
we walk on an endless winding road,
with twists and turns
it is rough, and too cuts our feet
until one day we stop,
and look upon that long and winding road
and realize it has all been meaningless,
with nothing familiar in sight.
then we dream, of our childhood oasis
and thirst for the cool water to sooth our blistered feet
as we slip the noose around our necks,
we wonder why
we ever
fucking
left.