A Story

Sometimes I feel old,
So old that I treat the people of my age like babies,
Like they would get on a broom stick and fly to foreign lands,
over the hills and across the sea,
Over the mountains draped in snow,
Over the autumn fields green and yellow
Through the forest where my childhood stood still
Scared and lonely
I look at my fingers and the pen lying dead on my diary
Dear world, do you know that I exist?
I am trying to bridge the distance with poetry
And fill the scars with dreams
Dear sun, please stay
A little longer i beg