My Inner Child

This is alot gentler, alot nicer. I don't write like this very often.

One person to whom I owe an explanation, for all my adult fables and fabrications. Forgetting all of the pirate ships and witches coves, the monster under my bed is still there, among the clothes. Sweeties and playtimes are no longer my daily arduous chore. Taken over by coursework and being cool, it's quite a bore. My barbies and lego have been tucked into my distant memories, along with the days of scraping my knees and climbing trees. Now it's all cinema releases and the biggest baddest rock shows, stupid puberty with it's emotions from swing high to swing lows. My teddies and soft toys are in a box beside my bed, from Furby to Tamagotchi to scruffy old Mr Ted. I wake up each day to watch horror stories on the news, No more Scooby Doo or Wacky Races from which to choose. My innocence is lost, it got mixed up on my way to so called adulthood. My inner child I would turn back to, if I could. I'm growing up, I'm growing old on the rocky road of life. Sometimes it's fun and happy, sometimes it's trouble and strife. Along the way I'm going to try to recall the days when I was tiny and wild. I owe everything I am, and will ever be, to my inner child.