The Romanticism of Aging

Oh what a joy it is to be young!

To play and frolic

to run and chase

to not ever be able to endure the act of sitting still for long

when being quiet is its own impossibility

when I don't want to is the answer for everything presented to you

when screaming fights with siblings and slight tears are common but not scarring

the times when breaking the rules seemed akin to death

then your parents said all was okay and it was!

the times when drama did not exist except in high school musical

when you couldn't lie without someone's little cheeks turning into a grin and "ruining it"

Oh what a joy it is to be young!

With growing age though expectations multiply

roles change

former "needs" become wants

and as years go by, seemingly quicker than the snap of a finger, no isn't a viable answer any longer

somewhere in this time everything has changed and no one thought to notify me or anyone else

somewhere during it all forever became a fairy tale and love a slippery slope

what happened to playing dress up

what happened to mischievous grins or any grins really

what happened to giggles at all hours of the day

Oh what a joy it WAS to be young!

there was no one defining moment

no single action when our childhood and all we knew fell apart

it was a slow and painstaking death in the imagination that soon after most forget that they ever had

from there this pain spread slowly like a disease

Inside a place of the heart where fairy tales and dreams used to be so commonplace now resides darkness

this living demon slowly finds all the dreams and joys left and tells masses of people individually how impossible and improbable these thoughts are

a vast majority of people hear this voice daily in adulthood until one day it just stops

not because they overcame it but rather it enveloped them fully

from then on when they hear others around them dare to speak an outlandish idea their tone changes when responding

A dismal and condescending twang sneaks into their voice as they tell the dreamer how unlikely their goal is

saying that a big goal will only allow for a bigger failure

leaving those of us who staunchly defend our lofty dreams to ponder "what changed?"

sometimes this soul would swear that a faint voice in the wind slowly rasps

"Nothing, but everything" pronouncing each syllable with a gut wrenching twist.






This poem is about: 
Our world


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