I went back

to the place where I grew up,

and there I found

hidden in the brush,

the remnants of my childhood.

There they were

at the base of that old tree,

rusted and broken,

and so caked with dirt that I could barely see

these things that I once loved.

Old toys and old places

tend to crumble with time.

Try if you want,

but you never will find

a way to return them

to the way they are in your mind.

In the memories of children

everything seems divine.

Don’t misunderstand,

please don’t get me wrong.

I have plenty of bad

and painful memories of when I was young,

more than I care to name.

But it’s just different

for children than it is for adults.

They have this innocence

that won’t let them understand what’s going on.

It’s their only defense.

Children know

how to see the beauty in everything,

and to overlook

the things that they don’t want to see,

things too ugly to face,

like depression and anger

in the people they love,

and all of the chaos

this world is made of.

They believe those sweet lies

people tell to the young,

and no matter how hard they fall

they always get back up.

I wish that I

could get some of that back,

and see more value

in happiness than truth and facts.

I miss that innocence.

Maybe then I could

start a new life for myself

and overcome

all of the hopelessness that I have felt.

I think that would save me.