I'm nostalgiac for other people's childhoods
And I remember skipping through woods
Which don't exist -- it's the same old story,
But it's not mine, and I'm worried that my glory
Days are just products of media hype:
Spoiling fruits which once were ripe,
Whose trees, diseased, bend and break--
Crocodile tears from borrowed heartache.
So I ask: were my feelings ever real?
I fear that I unwittingly steal,
That my memories boil plastic bubbles
In rusty cauldrons -- zero toil, little trouble.
Is there any point in experience? Everyone
Learns the same lessons anyway, the sun
Stays in place and we spin until we're sick.
We live in vain, and love too quick.