Little Jack
Roses are red, Violets are blue.
Jack was a boy who had nothing to do.
Like all other children, he ran and he sprung.
He had small nimble legs and a sweet silver tongue.
And oh, how he hated being so young.
He was taught that the elders will always be right
To not fear the dark, yet obey the light
To listen, not say, or question its means
Just follow the rules and eat all his greens.
Jack was so playful, but he could not play.
He was trapped between four walls every single day.
He wished he could run, to fly like a bird,
To go to the stars that he so fondly heard.
But the grownups just told him his vision was blurred.
The tables had turned, he wanted control
To steer his own sailboat to where he wanted to go.
Time went on, and the light finally shone.
His wish had come true, he’s finally grown.
And all the time he feared the dark and the dusk,
When he’s only been living in its comforting husk.
Now he can smell reality’s harsh musk.
All work and no play made Jack oh, so dull.
He finally understood that age is null.
And as he grew up, his eyes saw the black.
No matter how old, he’ll always be at the back.
That was the turning point of poor, little Jack.
He never got to make it to the stars of his dreams.
He thought he’d have more freedom, all he got was more stress,
He used to want more choices, now he wants even less.
He’s now an adult. And he’s grown into a mess.
He’s forty years old. He’s tired and weak.
He lost his job now, his future too bleak.
He just wants some comfort, but nobody’s home
He’s still all alone in his well made of stone.
He checks the newspaper for a possible loan.
He stared at a picture, then off to deep space
He remembered exactly where he saw that face.
He looked upon his own hands with disgrace.
Life was much harder than he ever thought
But surviving so far, and all was for naught?
His world stopped spinning. Everything was still.
He stared at the rope. He’s had it restrung.
It was almost taunting him. It dauntingly hung.
Oh, how he wish he was still free.
And young.
He could now fly to the stars.
He kicked the stool from his feet.
Hoping his dear is still waiting to meet.
All colors will fade, and all things will soon age.
The young has its cons, but it’s still just a stage.
Enjoy life, young or old, it’s better than none.
The roses have wilted.
This poem is done