Once upon a time,
My life was simple,
From such childish things as,
Will my friend come over?
Or, mummy, what’s a pimple?
Now that I am older,
I have grown,
Both inwardly,
And outwardly,
My future’s seeds are sown.
But have I grown,
For the better or the worse?
And is it other’s better,
Or my better,
Or is it my new curse?
My mother thinks and is annoyed,
That I am growing way too fast,
That I will leave her way too soon,
Though I’ve been this way since day one,
And now my role is cast.
My mother worries about the boys,
She sees me as still three,
But how, I want to ask her,
If I am a still a child,
Can all my achievements be?
My achievements of keeping on living,
And being able to let go,
Knowing that part of life is pain,
And that there is an end,
And through it I will grow.
But my childish heart,
Will not even reluctantly accept,
These matters of life,
That must be dealt for and with,
And so that childish part I’ve kept.
The childish part that is my essence,
The originality of me,
The relief it gives,
Around the corner – no, up there!
It always seems to be.
So, sometimes I ignore it,
And others hold it tight,
The nostalgia of childhood,
All the memories far but familiar,
They hold my wrongs and rights.
It stops the pain, the worry,
And in it I can see,
The childish smile,
The carefree days,
The girl I used to be.
