There was a face I once knew.
The thing about it was it grew.
They say the future holds something
Great.
The thing about "the future" is it has no date.
So as a child we believe it'll never come.
We go over and ask our mum.
When can we drive a car?
When can we go far?
Well, it's a dance in the dark.
A child playing with fire.
They accidentally made a spark,
And now they admire
Danger...
Well our minds are a cage,
They also serve as a coloring page.
We collect blue, green, and red,
To color a picture before our imagination is
Dead...
We ask to be older.
When we grow up,
We ask to grow slower.
What is the perfect age between the cradle and the grave?
Both hold us in place.
So where do we save,
Our memory,
Our youth,
Our love,
Our truth,
Or hope for the world.
What is the age?
On what page,
Do we choose to start to write our lives as more than fiction?
Because perfection isn't something you cook in a kitchen.
It's all up to our jurisdiction.
YOU ARE READING
Soul
Poetry"Write something and it might be worthless, Paint something and it might be wordless, Nonsense verses Pointless curses, You'll see purpose start to surface, No one else is dealing with your demon, Meaning defeating them Might be the beginning...
