It’s not as easy as I had hoped it would be,
As it potentially could be,
But I don’t blame you,
Of cause I blame myself,
That’s just what I do,
But I don’t mean to put pressure on you.
I blame the fairy tales,
The “Little” white lies,
That help you fantasise through innocent eyes.
The dreams that your peers encourage,
They know that fairy-god mother’s, giant peaches, enchanted wardrobes and kissing frogs,
Are all incorrect and officially unobtainable.
They pump you up full of air,
Pretending to care,
Like fattening and grooming an animal before slaughter,
Sharing warmth and affection before chopping off their heads,
Only to watch us pop,
Deflate and drop.
Our eyes then open to the black and grim grey of reality,
Where nothing is certain but fatality.
There is no magic.
All is bleak.
The streets are not paved with the gold that you seek,
But drenched in blood from the past, present and future.
Divorce and prenups are our ever after.
There is no happy,
It’s a complete disaster,
Would it be easier should we have always been told the truth?
Do they hold it back at our expense?
Or to encourage some hope before all is lost?
Lies disguised in lullaby’s,
Until we grow old and realise,