Me talking to me

How wonderful it would’ve been,

If we could talk to ourselves of younger skin.

I would’ve said, “Hey, 8-year-old me, I miss your smile.

Keep wearing it like you've only got this one gift,

Keep sailing those tides; you've got no burdens to lift.

As those are the ripples we make in this ocean o’ time,

After all, we are but petty notes of this music sublime.

What? Do these sights seem too hazy for your eyes?

Okay, let’s settle for some easy chores this time.

First, let me tell you,

You are a work of art; your skin colour is just fine

Your soul is much brighter; let it shine.

And don’t you lose those epic fights

In your fantasy world.

The whole plot is scattered,

Here, with us: losers.

What, now you think of escaping? Silly you!

They are right, the only way out is through.

Oh, and you find way too many faults in yourself.

Don’t worry; they’ll keep you close to the ground.

I wish I could keep your innocence in me.

Nowadays, it’s nowhere to be found.

And maybe, you are just as bad with words.

But remember, that smile is worth a million dollars.

And don’t believe those ghosts in your dreams to be real.

It’s not where they hide,

Yes, they do, but just on the inside.

Is this all too much for you? Okay, fine;

But just one thing: Don’t become me.

Let’s try something different this time.

But hey! This question doesn’t let me focus,

Time and again, it whispers: Aren't we the last of us?”