Peter Pan

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Late nights,

early mornings,

each hours closer,

until the day approaches

when fun games

become heart breaks,

and times spent

picking lonesome flowers,

become working hours.

Peter Pan

would understand.

A boy

who would never grow a beard

who would never stop believing

in childhood dreams.

The best kind of dreams.

As I grow taller,

and as I learn more,

the dreams fade.

They aren’t important anymore.

They get replaced

with ideas, logic.

No more magic,

no more make believe,

just innocent happiness

turned sour.

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