Just a child.

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?