I hope to be old soon.
Youth is fraught with pitfalls,
littered with discarded dreams.
Broken hearts and broken bones,
one poor choice after the next.
Youth is serious,
spending all its time trying to prove itself.
The herculean Sisyphus,
the rolling, moss-less stone:
wayward, raging, ricocheting.
It’s not for me.
I’d rather collect a little moss;
They say youth is wasted on the young.
Youth is wasted either way—
only the old are free.