I miss those days where sharing crayons was our pyramid of trust
Where proving you were not chicken was nothing other than a must
The world, it was a whole lot brighter back then
It wasn’t a matter of why or how, but rather when
We poured out our imagination onto the sidewalks with chalk from our hearts
We predicated our mistakes from the bruises and bumps suffered from our parks
We saw darkness as rest, a period of delusion for the insane
We saw happiness pour down onto us like the transcending rain
What if we could go back to then, wouldn’t we be the happiest of all
Whenever we felt like we were so big yet the world felt so small
Now it seems like there is nothing, nothing in this world for me
Once there was something, something, carved into the bark of a tree
I do believe it was something complex yet paltry like “home is where the heart lies”
Looking back on that I see something meager yet ambiguous like “it’s also where it dies”
Waging a wicked war of woes, woven willfully wanting wisdom
Pouring a profuse pint of profanity, a proven perfectly pertaining prism
Because it was then when I felt so alive, so translucent and free
Childhood is not a matter of how or why, but when will we see
The simplest of things in life, no glory, power or prestige
But the friends we have and the memories of our siege
Our siege of happiness, our goal of something amongst the breeze
To feel lively, real, and to find the blessing behind the sneeze
For it is back then, I learned most of the things I know to day
I know how important it is to feel happy and remember just to play
If we ever forget the simple things, humanities ideas will engulf us all
We will forget how in a world so big, it is always important to feel tall
It was then I rested diligently upon pillows of carpet and blocks
Blocks I used to build the world around me, where everything’s in chalk
Mostly everything can be erased, but the memories they hold on like glue
You cannot separate the home from the kid, you can only bid adieu
So what we carve on our trees, our blank canvas of life
Should be written carefully so when we read, we also write
It was then I was a child so careful and so free
It is now I am an adult and have to assume my niche
It was then I was young and it is now I grow old
But the story isn’t fully written, it’s waiting to be told