Often the young forget
What it is they love, and frequently find
They tend to regret choices they make,
A silly mistake, a childish phrase
Playing the adult in several ways,
But still unripe, not ready to bloom,
Trapped in angst and youthful gloom
Blind to the world, caught in a mind,
Where logic and thought is only confined
To the space at the back, with boxes and bags
Tied with pink ribbons and babyish tags,
Pushchairs and prams reside there too
Replaced by rings and watches, sparkling and new
Too old for that, too young for this,
Too cool for everything, except a goodnight kiss
And a hug and a cuddle on a quiet afternoon
Perhaps an apology (once in a blue moon)
Since deep down I think you know
I’m still your baby, and I won’t let you go.
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