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:
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