I miss those days where sharing crayons was our pyramid
of trust, where proving you were not chicken was imperative.
We poured out our imagination onto the sidewalks with chalk
We saw darkness as rest, a period of delusion for the insane.
We saw happiness pour down onto us like the transcending rain.
We were so big, yet the world appeared as something small.
Now it seems like there is nothing in this world for me.
Once there was something carved into the bark of a tree.
I do believe it was something complex yet paltry
like “home is where the heart lies.” Looking back on that
I see something meager yet ambiguous like “it’s also where it dies.”
Because it was then when I felt so alive, so translucent and so free.
Childhood is not a matter of how or why, but when we see
The simplest of things in life – no glory, power or prestige
But the friends we have and the memories of our siege.
Our siege of happiness, our goal of pleasure amongst the breeze,
to feel lively, real, and to find the blessing behind the sneeze.
If we ever forget the simple things, modernity will engulf us all.
We will forget how in a world so big, it’s always important to feel tall.
It was then I rested diligently upon pillows of carpet and of blocks,
blocks I used to build the world around me; everything else was in chalk.
Mostly everything can be erased, except the memories that hold.
You cannot separate the home from the kid, you can only bid adieu.
So what we carve on our trees, the trees our blank canvas of life,
should be written carefully so when we read, we also speak and write.
It was then I was a child so careful and so free
But the story isn’t fully written. It’s still waiting to be.