The things I yearn

were messages well earned

to nothing observations Burnt

What is it exactly have we learnt?

Except...

How to bend to Life

And forsake every perfect dream

Maturity sure is a hell of a bitch

puberty the snitch ...

Of mistaken endeavours

Hopes we had it seems

On paths painted White

Shaded is the bright light

That cast sight to ambitions

Take no qualms personal

Its about you nor me

We all are yet to uncover that distance

Of who we are to be.