You see
This isn't who I wanted to be
It seems that these dreams
We're never supposed to become reality
For they have become nightmares
Naturally
Many dreams died
So I buried them under that old willow tree
Where we used to swing
From its low hanging eaves
We wrote down
What we wanted on dried leaves
And sent them off
With rituals of campfire stories
And collected fireflies
I think we knew that what we had written
Would never happen
But I didn't know that they would become this beast
Hanging on to me
As if those things that I didn't succeed
Are ghosts haunting that old building
We threw stones at
The one with the old hag
That though never seen
Was as threatening as the boogeyman
It seems that childhood held promises of an infinity
Yet now gone are the sunsets and fantasies
Replaced be these nightmarish realities