I thought that daydreaming
Was allowed always,
That no age could
Stop you from doing so,
Far away, to lands
With a precious gaze,
Who no one other than yourself
Would know.
There would be many
Pastel meadows there,
And storylines
Of characters unknown,
Some ugly, tragical or only fair,
Who still all have to be
To people shown.
But no, it's hard to think it is allowed; I should be serious,
Only think of the things
Who're near,
And not be like a cloud,
Always on well-known earth –
Not up above.
Now I am in my
Twenties and reflect,
If I should embrace this,
Or only neglect.
This poem is actually a rhyming, iambic and Shakespearean sonnet but I made it look like free verse :p
