Aren't humans boring
and terribly non-exciting
working for a living,
pushing and fighting
burying a dream or two
every passing day
one has got to be real
feet on the ground, they say!
And that is why, my friend,
I write of butterflies
masters of their will
creatures of the skies
free to soar and dip
and then rise again
gliding on wingfuls
of sunshine and rain
Aren't adults a mess
with thousand thoughts
and a million minds
calling the shots
divided loyalties
and fragmented hearts
like actors on a stage
playing their parts
And that is why, my friend,
I write of children
with minds and hearts as pure
as dew in morning sun
feeling thinking and
living in totality
knowing not what is
an alternate reality
Aren't humans mundane
with limbs that walk and hold
eyes that see no far
and fingers that simply fold
limited in nerve and sinew
and the length of our bones
fenced in by our frames
shackled by our skintones
And that is why, my friend,
I write of magical elves
wish granting fairies
and babbling bookshelves
figments of imagination
on a flight of freedom
residing on the ramparts
of our so-called wisdom
Isn't it wonderful, my friend
to be able to escape
the smallness of our being
the monotony of our lifetape
turn words into wings
and fly with the butterflies
gurgle with the children
and experience magical highs
Words are but rabbitholes
in the fence of our lives, my friend
escape routes to a world
far from a reality that we cannot mend.
and terribly non-exciting
working for a living,
pushing and fighting
burying a dream or two
every passing day
one has got to be real
feet on the ground, they say!
And that is why, my friend,
I write of butterflies
masters of their will
creatures of the skies
free to soar and dip
and then rise again
gliding on wingfuls
of sunshine and rain
Aren't adults a mess
with thousand thoughts
and a million minds
calling the shots
divided loyalties
and fragmented hearts
like actors on a stage
playing their parts
And that is why, my friend,
I write of children
with minds and hearts as pure
as dew in morning sun
feeling thinking and
living in totality
knowing not what is
an alternate reality
Aren't humans mundane
with limbs that walk and hold
eyes that see no far
and fingers that simply fold
limited in nerve and sinew
and the length of our bones
fenced in by our frames
shackled by our skintones
And that is why, my friend,
I write of magical elves
wish granting fairies
and babbling bookshelves
figments of imagination
on a flight of freedom
residing on the ramparts
of our so-called wisdom
Isn't it wonderful, my friend
to be able to escape
the smallness of our being
the monotony of our lifetape
turn words into wings
and fly with the butterflies
gurgle with the children
and experience magical highs
Words are but rabbitholes
in the fence of our lives, my friend
escape routes to a world
far from a reality that we cannot mend.
