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A poem

By H.H. CallaghanPublished 3 years ago 1 min read
The Inner Child

The fluttering in my chest announces softly,

The coming of a change that I can choose:

Stupefy the masses with a joker,

Pointing out the flaws in my recital,

Or, to let the glass be broken,

A windowpane letting in the cold,

The realness of a face that none can handle,

A mirror of the masquerade we play.

A child sat on a stool facing the wall,

Abandoned, steeping in the shame,

That for once the child inside us hiding wishes,

You'd offer out a hand to play a game.

To shuck the husk, the adult, the peel, the pith,

Like some nymph reborn unto the mist,

To live your life like some supremer creature,

Unbound by even confines of the wind.

Alas, that strumming of the chest is often followed,

By a sneaking little inkling of a voice,

that someone else will want to play that game,

Preposterous, as mythic as your dreams.

We zip that greying carcass over shoulders,

Bogged down by realisations daunting,

That adulthood is a prison made of fake smiles,

If Neverland was real, then it would weep.

sad poetry

About the Creator

H.H. Callaghan

I'm a writer of prose and verse and love all aspects of literature and storytelling. I am working on some big projects, so I hope you all like my work to come! I will be posting smaller pieces in-between, so please indulge in these too.

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