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.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Unlike many of the poems I posted yesterday (April 7, 2005), this one was actually written that day, though it reflects a mentality that has pervaded me through the years.  I should be an old soul because of some stuff that has happened, but I seem to maintain innocence and naivete in spite of all my experiences, kind of to challenge all the more staining events.

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