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Wasted Youth
My creativity is stunted,
At least what still remains,
Whether for lack of time
Or a change in clime
I no longer see witches or weathervanes.
Whereas I used to see something new
Everyday, without fail
Now I see "to-do" lists and phone calls
And single-white-males.
Perhaps it's the age
Beckoning me into maturity.
Was I lacking in that before
When I lived in wide-eyed futurity?
But those were just dreams
And the occasional worry
About a future I never thought would come,
At least not in such a hurry.
I'm aging too fast
Because of my past this applies
Youth is wasted on the young
And deprived from us more than you'd realize.
But, back to creativity
And the joys of imagination-
When did I first notice
Its eventual termination?
Some would say that inspiration and fancy
Are not any more removed
From one age to another,
But when did the Muse
On less and less frequent of visits
Make me feel old enough to be her mother?
Such novel ideas I need right now,
Some fresh cognitions of curious portent,
Just a brief reminder that I still know how
To let my mind brew ambitions without my consent.
