My mother said to look past
the bright pink walls
imagination and story tales
overtime it will grow old.

I imagine about
fairy tales and casting spells
very pure like white snow,
I glimpse past the pink walls
as my face beats red
my mind has been deceived
my imagery of the world
was wrong.

Outside the pink walls
lead me to an imperfect
sporadic world
that slowly
caves me into
adulthood.