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.
YOU ARE READING
Whimsical Nights
PuisiThis is the introduction to the series of poems 'Whimsical Nights'. This is my current project, and I will be adding to it periodically. When I first thought of this new series, I realized I needed a name. Oftentimes, names can be the difference bet...
