There's a ghost in my house. I hear her singing.
A little girl. Why is it always a little girl?
The light through the window is barely enough to see by, but the sky outside is very pale. Clouds
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Every day muzzled by mundane decisions.
Here lie tombstones of paperwork filled with unfulfilled visions.
A brisk life through the lens of one’s ambitions.
Decades of wars condensed into clips on their televisions.
The clock ticks on. Yet, it’s always Monday at 2 O’clock.
The words of progress break down tradition and cuts through deadlocks.
Endless circled, red deadlines mark the end of days, weeks, and years.
My legacy is only a marker of past frontiers.
They say slow and steady wins the race, but why a marathon on a möbius strip.
Years fly by without a single trace, painting a lifetime on a universal blip.
Get me out of this prison of boredom and onto the fields for which I am drafted.
The blur of seasons serving as background to which books are written and sculptures are crafted.
A heart ripe with courage, so when is it my turn for adventure.
A head of only white hair shows the unforgiving paths we’ve ventured.
Watch me fly high above and touch the warmth of the sun’s rays.
Battles are fought at the desk through endless nights and weary days.
Big ideas were set into motion with each day’s hard work.
I am the Icarus who lands, much to history’s irk.
Those will be the stories of when I grow up.
These are the stories of when I was young.
Here lie tombstones of paperwork filled with unfulfilled visions.
A brisk life through the lens of one’s ambitions.
Decades of wars condensed into clips on their televisions.
The clock ticks on. Yet, it’s always Monday at 2 O’clock.
The words of progress break down tradition and cuts through deadlocks.
Endless circled, red deadlines mark the end of days, weeks, and years.
My legacy is only a marker of past frontiers.
They say slow and steady wins the race, but why a marathon on a möbius strip.
Years fly by without a single trace, painting a lifetime on a universal blip.
Get me out of this prison of boredom and onto the fields for which I am drafted.
The blur of seasons serving as background to which books are written and sculptures are crafted.
A heart ripe with courage, so when is it my turn for adventure.
A head of only white hair shows the unforgiving paths we’ve ventured.
Watch me fly high above and touch the warmth of the sun’s rays.
Battles are fought at the desk through endless nights and weary days.
Big ideas were set into motion with each day’s hard work.
I am the Icarus who lands, much to history’s irk.
Those will be the stories of when I grow up.
These are the stories of when I was young.