Peter Pan Isn't Real.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
The innocence of childhood is eventually tainted by reality, but what disappears as well is the imagination you possess. This poem hopefully reflects the life of someone who loses these things with age.

Submitted: November 23, 2012

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Submitted: November 23, 2012

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Feet have to be lifted,
Or the monsters will bite,
Or grab at your ankles,
Could we put up a fight?
But it’s already the morning,
When did I drift?
To a night time encounter,
To a magical bliss?

Again, how did I get here?
But it’s Christmas Eve at last,
Santa Clause is coming,
As is the ghost of Christmas past,
So many have gone,
Along with the fun,
Now I’m no longer naïve,
Now it’s time to move on.

Of course it’s not real,
A real boy can’t fly!
You can’t be young forever,
And I’d rather just die,
A world with a bitter core,
Evokes nothing anymore,
We leave our hope in childhood,
Never seeing what Peter saw.

Now age is taking over,
Skin sags, heart declines,
The fire can never warm,
All feeling left behind,
Where are those monsters?
What if they were real?
What if we just can’t see them?
What if we can’t feel?

All dressed in black,
He would have hated that top hat,
On the empty head of a shadow,
Who’s drawn like a mouse to a trap,
Down, down, down,
No more lifting feet anymore,
A life without imagination,
Like a sea without a shore.


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