We’re all just wounded children

Walking around in adult bodies

pretending to know what’s going on

 

Our struggles are different, I’m sure

But our stories are the same

Childhoods that were supposed to be sacred

Now a tainted memory

Isn’t it a shame?

 

Some of us never heal our inner child,

A child that yearned to be heard

To be seen

 

The playgrounds from our youth

Where innocence and joy once played

Now rusted slides and squeaky swings

And made up chants we no longer sing

 

Walking through the hallways of our mind

A wounded child searching for solace

With echoes of a simpler time