Isn't this what authors strive for?
An attempt to capture the beauty of youth
within the boundary of words
to define what it is to live behind that
fragile window of ignorance
the glass so slightly tinted
to disguise the world's hideous truths
and yet so susceptible to fracture;
a false sense of security.
Some of us are lucky to have looked through that window –
others must face the harsh shine early on,
unfiltered and cruel,
subjected to the sad realities too soon.
And it's impossible to define
that childlike perception of time;
of course, kids are able to sleep soundly at nine –
every hour so sluggish,
each minute drags by,
each day may as well be a lifetime.
be tired, too?
A/N: I wrote this a long time ago and just found it. Forgot I had ever written it, but I liked it, so I posted it, and here it is.