Dear six-year-old self,
stop.

Close your eyes.
Tilt toward
the great fireball
embedded in the deep blue sea
of white foam, floating
among the pirates and their treasure.

On soft skin,
rocket ships draw
lines of worry.
Perfection exists
only in dreams.

Life is a
shooting
star:
brilliant, then
gone,
a trail of wishes left behind.

Life is a Peter Pan where
old age comes as fast
as Captain Hook
escapes
Tick-Tock the Crocodile.

Look from the moon
at a world where time
flies like Tinkerbell,
with pixie dust sprinkled
on top.

Stop.
Foam floats in deep
blue seas, among the
pirates and their treasure,
only found when life is
over.