Old dolls are tucked away in
cardboard boxes where
they’re suffocated,
along with cherished books of
fairies’ broken dreams.
All toys that I remember with
a sentimental sigh
are probably at goodwill –
or either lost in time.
The fault is not on you, I know,
a flaw in the system.
But understand my childhood
has burned before my eyes.
Dented souls are herded
and living is top priority.
Midnight is no longer free
for dazed and roaming poetry.
I’m becoming an adult –
whatever that will mean.
Still, who decided that my life
is any form of payment?