Scribbles of a Chaotic Mind

Sometimes my pen glides ever so smoothly down these old and worn out pages Where blots of an ink of careless treading left me anxious and vigilant for my next line of perfect cursive. A carefree child once scribbled her thoughts and plans like she has endless pages in her wake without any fear of what the world holds... not realising that monuments of an established law would bind her dreams on mere canvas. Now the tip of my pen tread these pages like how we, barefooted, would tread on broken glass For every blunder would lead to a page wasted or a broken nip And we're running out of time... They say I still have many years left But the sands of my hourglass run so fast gobbling along with it all my thoughts and dreams that ends up in a cauldron of useless mess. Is all this intelligence I'm blessed with a curse? I know nothing at all.