Back when I was just a little kid,
I only remember being free.
nothing there to hold me back,
no regretful thoughts of you and me.
Running, skipping, riding my bike,
Anything kept me amused.
But now I only cry on the couch,
My heart, shattered, torn, abused.
How I wish I could go back,
To being happy and free.
Growing up has done only bad,
it stopped me from being - me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
not really. it is only what you make it out to be. life is full of fun, like doing what you like. like writing poetry. it is therapeutic. like meeting poets on the web who can bring you round the world with their words. poetry is therapeutic. the more you write, the more you feel your troubles leave you.