an attempt at poetry

chapter 42: 'gone home'

Why do we long for a way,

A road we may drive to get out of this place,

Was it always so awful? I'll ask if I may,

Feeling we had everything, everything but space,

At 12 we're content,

As our mother hums a familiar tune,

A crippled smile finds its way,

Unaware that we'll forget it soon,

The hands that now leave red prints on your cheeks,

Once tenderly wiped tears off of them,

And with a single soft caress,

Offered the book of answers you seek,

This place, you don't remember it being so cold,

The candles were ablaze beneath the midnight summer sky,

As you stared at the stars, the only ones that knew why you truly grew up,

You used to dread seeing ghosts and the dark, but mostly, growing old,

Perhaps you never really aged,

For you feel anything but old,

And all that comes with it,

You don't feel mature,

Or know how to sit still,

Perhaps that little boy,

Never really did leave,

He just mistook this face,

For the halloween mask,

Stored next to your mother's old and ugly vase,

In the guests room, hidden, at the back,

Perhaps, all we are,

Is just kids,

Kids who long for a way,

Not to somewhere else,

But to home,

From the park, with our mates,

Having been a little too sucked in,

To the point the fact you have a life,

Slipped your mind when you pretended,

You were paying an adult fine,

Perhaps all we want,

Is to remember,

Precisely how we got this lost,

And all the turns we took,

To help our hearts defrost,

And see all that it cost;

 - In that same park there's a tomb

Surrounded by the cold,

It read; here lie the remains of a young boy,

Who was nothing, but twelve years old.