Morning Dew

The child in love with stories,
scrawling words in nonsense poems,
bending the ink to their will;
creating a world all their own.

The teenager longing for freedom,
screaming words dipped in fiery acid,
because their limbs became tired so long ago.
They are only trying to find themselves in the
theatre of absurd, that is our broken world.

Some fight, or sit and stare,
red paints their arms,
smiles adorn their faces,
and the world becomes grey;
as the years fly by.

One in love with daily life,
the other hating without cause.
Hugs become shoves,
smiles become masks,
and love turns into hate.

It is an adventure born out of necessities,
and pain marks people like revolving doors;
we mourn over the past as we grow
because then comes the time
of no longer knowing who you are.