You talk of the future,
One of picketed fence dreams
With little ones running
Giggling
To olden days
Wooden rocking chairs
And paired glasses
of dentures.
And yet, you refuse to grow up.
You listen to the spills
Of a woman,
Mentally further
In her years
Pour her heart
Mop up her insecurities
Dripping with love
And yet, such trivial matters are the topic of discussion.
Wake up,
You arrogant, pretentious
Peter Pan.
Can you simply
Smell the roses
Of responsibility
Drink from fountains
Of dignity,
Feel the air of change
Brushing through coiled,
Unkempt hair locks?
And yet, you still ignore all the signs.
Break the
Looking glass
Where you fall into
A sense of dependency
Stand tall
Like trees packed with
Experience.
Wisdom.
The answers lie
Deep in
The core of all
Curiosities:
Research.
And yet, you remain still, shocked that such words could slip through my tongue.
And yet you find me vulgar
And yet you find me childish over
Petty
Playful
Concealed matters to shield you from the
Dragon’s breath
For you dear Pan,
Would be smoldered in its flames.
And yet, you feel like Neverland’s missing member,
So painfully
Ripped
From your true home.
Cursed
To live out your days
As an adult.
Pulled away from the
Warm blanket
That mommy
And daddy so carefully
Have woven for you
To remain in.
Poor, poor Peter Pan,
The alarm clock
Has been ringing
For some time.
And yet, there no longer holds a “snooze” button.