all the same, i miss you.

I wrote this when I was 18 or 19 and graduating high school. I always had a problem with “growing up” and I think this was a response to that. It is about losing one’s self when growing older in years. It is about only being able to dream about being free then waking up to a reality of cold coffee and cubicle life - something that I am terrified of. I framed this and gave it to my dad for Christmas one year.


Delicate, floating on clouds of white and wings of the friendliest dove.

Sailing through the breeze into the harbor amongst the golden ships,

Children laughing as they push each other off the plank they imagine to be there.

Flaunting eye patches of midnight and shrouding little bodies in red and white stripes.

Up and down, jumping and then taking flight.

Playing Peter Pan with the old man next door.

He never did grow up.

Little scratches cover little knees.

Not bad enough to require a band aide.

Whistling and hooting.

Diving into the frigid twirling pools of pale blue and turquoise,

Laughing in transit.

Happiness and truth in their smiling cheeks of red.

Days of youth refuse to be numbered.

Running as far away from that ticking crocodile as possible.

Heavy clouds of gray carry the children off to lands covered in thick black tar.

Removing the eye patches and throwing them into the rush of the sea.

They jump off the deep end and into red ties and cranberry socks.

Unforgiving khaki and corduroy.

Meetings, home late and up early.

Returning to the harbor and twirling pools only when the night is abandoned by even the moon.

The light of the day brings it all again.

Back to a reality of unenthusiastic mornings and deadlines to be reached.

Longing to dance with the butterflies and sing with the crickets.

The opera singer of life carries a bad tune.

Children stirring in the night,

dreaming of playing in those far off lands that they can still reach. Just maybe if they focus on it long enough!

No time to think of childish things. 

All the time in the world.

Days of youth refuse to be numbered.