My dreams are dead;
Killed by the serial murderer called Maturity.
He gave me a speech prior to pulling the trigger
From the mouths of many of my elders
And with each word he utters,
one more dream drops off like a dead fly:
“You are
Too old
For folly,
Foolish.
Real life
Is made
Of sober things:
Responsibility over things you don’t own.
Work till you’re worn
Practicality; only things that can be explained
Happiness is not the aim.”
Maturity, he clipped my Imagination’s wings
And the dragon I was riding high on started to fall,
And dropped me off at a dangerous place.
And now that I cling
To the edge of childhood
By the tips
Of my fingers,
Catch me, Caulfield!
Caulfield, catch me!
I’m on the brink
Of being turned
Into yet
Another
Phony.
-Akotowaa
The Spider Kid's Blog 
“singing my life, with these words” ahhh!
LOL
“Real life
Is made
Of sober things:”
With the above quote I’m moved to think that…well, it’s too true that the world is sometimes too drunk on maturity.
Great ending.
Oh have you read The Catcher in the Rye?
Nope, I haven’t read that. I’ve only heard the title a couple of times.
Why do you ask?
A lot of the poem is largely based on it. I suggest that you read the book (it’s a pretty short one) and re-read the poem. It will make a lot more sense.