You’re just a child.
Your life consists of play, of colours, of innocence and trivialities
Your world is untainted by the stains of adulthood
Your days are spent creating and discovering
And ‘consequence’ means nothing to you.
You’re not afraid.
You don’t mind when reality proves an obstruction
It’s nothing to you when you get it wrong
You don’t care about how they’ll react
And you don’t just push boundaries; you ignore them.
Adults want to be you.
They picture you running through fields, free, uninhibited
They imagine your vision, creativity, lucidity
They think their lives would be better if only they were like you
And you are the alternative to their misery.
But if you’re so envied
Why is it
That you’re powerless?