Hills and Holes

When I was a child,
I ran about,
Playing in the thick mud,
Reading books every night,
Sleeping so softly,
On clouds so high,
With not a care in mind.
I fell in a deep hole,
Dark and damp,
The monster of puberty,
Dragged me down into its’ depths,
I slaved with my pen and paper,
And wrote unintelligible things,
My head was heavy with thought.
Alas, I climbed out,
And rose high atop a hill,
Now I shout what I might,
Smiling in the warm sun light,
Playing under the bright sky,
I nap ever so happily,
And I capture the words of the heart,
With a mind as clear as life.

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