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.