Younger Days

Adeem

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    When I was young I used play on the old man's apple tree
    When I was young I used to scream out Ollie Ollie auxen free
    To young to blame it on these mistakes
    to old to have any excuse for the trouble it makes
    generations apart from my old wrinkled eyes
    following the childish breadcrumbs that keep falling from the skies
    It's the piece of mind that grows from this fine tuned machine
    accomplish self fulfilment with a unfamiliar scheme
    My motivation to be an adult has decided to catapult
    me over the picket fence to land on my 2.5 kids
    I used to play in the sandbox with the same little voices
    And I would always remember to bring a spare vine
    The chimes from the clock would signify recess and
    tell all the kids that it's snack time
    I'm Less than a cartoon away from being the last in line
    Kickball is my life juice boxes are my therapists
    those are the simple pleasures that used to get
    and they now leave me here motionless
    walking to the mailbox to send my life away with a signature
    I remember all the jokes we used to tell each other stop you're killing her
    you almost crushed that pray mantis
    A crime punishable by death that would put your name on the list
    rumor is that Santa Claus compiles pages worth of information
    but that fake fairy tale has nothing on the damage I have done
    I broke 4 windows, chased 5 girls, not to mention the cats I taunted
    And still this year I got every present that I wanted

    I believed in folk lore and made wagers for peanut butter sandwiches
    the blissful innocence that gave me attention when I had new bandages
    The transition is identified as growing up but I lost interest in
    the responsibility that kills your first star wishes
    The corner of the room had my initials with a dunce cap that's colored and shaped
    to match perfectly with my superhero cape
    But now my cape is replaced with a button-down shirt and a mature smirk
    that shows my soul to be nothing of worth
    Finger-painting and typing, my marvelous hands at work

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    The difference in creating for my cause or as someone else's clerk
    No more kisses on the cheek and red faces from embarrassment
    It's the long drawn out process and regretting words I sort of meant

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