Seventeen
Oh, I turned seventeen
burning my dreams into a smoke-stained hue.
I miss that life without screams,
a life made only of soft, gentle dreams.
Once, colourful ponies wandered and flew,
kissing the moon with sparkles beneath them.
How I ache for that world to return
but time does not remould,
it only burns bridges.
Now the dreams are black,
colours and joy misplaced somewhere
in the endless search for “something better.”
The ponies have turned into bears,
and laughter has dissolved into silent tears.
Yet still, I would choose that bear,
draped in a sparkly dress to shield my skin,
guarding myself from demons
that once looked like angels
the ones I once invited into my dreams.
Now the dreams lie buried somewhere
under piles of books.
The writers have lost their words,
the dancers their movement,
the guitarists their strings,
the singers have swallowed their voices.
They tell us to stay numb
because we dream too much.
Then they tell us to dream more.
But who will tell them—
it’s not that we stopped dreaming,
it’s that the dreams
have turned into nightmares.
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