Racing towards twenty,
no hands on the wheel.
I have a Peter Pan plan:
run when it gets too real.

There is an aching deep within me,
that I hoped  time could heal.
Threw desperate looks at the clock,
but it ignored my appeal.

I like myself much more
when I take the time to read.
Yet I only stir and sleep
or stare at petty screens.

The sand, it just keeps falling;
each night I hear it piling.
When the sound comes from within,
there is no such thing as hiding.

My biggest fear:

I will wake up and be thirty,
but an old old man.
Always talking about what I was
and all I could have been,

Then I’ll turn round and be forty
Just like all suburban slobs,
who have never read the classics,
grateful slaves to dead jobs.

Fifty will approach,
I’ll swear it’s too late in the day
for a man to make new ways,
deathly afraid of change.

Perhaps when I’m ninety,
scales will fall from my eyes,
my head will hang in sorrow;
having wasted my only life.