The Letter

A troubled youth,

we all do squander,

and as we grow,

away, we wander.

We place our feet

on shaky ground.

As the world

spins quickly 'round.

Quickly, we forget

the flowers in our hair,

the trucks on the mat,

slinkies on the stairs.

Entitled, we wait

for success to come leaping,

and in the night,

we remember childhood, weeping.

We soon settle down

in a world that won't see

the happy-go-lucky kid

we used to be.

Adversity haunts us,

tragedy taunts us.

Lingering, waiting,

our sin laudly flaunts us.

So I stand at the doorstep,

letter in hand.

"Come home now," it reads,

"put pain to an end."

Quietly, I rap

on my sweet youth's door,

but I find youth is not with me,

not anymore.