Badminton

It flies in the air
To and fro
One hit to another
One smile and another;

The joy is simple
I can see it from above
Maybe they’re connected
Somewhere else in time;

I remember the time
When all that mattered
Was which crayon was better
And whose backpack was brighter;

We yearn to grow up
We yearn to go back
We want to be free
We want to be told;

Something’s not right
What the fuck man.

(I find the use of the expletive necessary to support and finalise the overall frustration; if something is real, there is no need for romanticization or some induced form of exaggeration. Sometimes it is okay to just write as it is, incoherent and hardly with a form.)

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