even my head wasn't safe, they told me. so where was I to go?

the real world wasn’t
good enough
anymore.
the leaves lacked their sparkle
and trees ceased their dancing
whenever I turned to look

they did it on purpose, I was
sure, because the malignant spirits
amused themselves through
tormenting mortal children.

the real world wasn’t
good enough
anymore,
and I didn’t want to be mortal.
the adventures which inspired me
had me jaded and questioning my perception of magic.

reality was dull, and there was nothing, nothing,
nothing at all I could do to change it.
imagination only spins so far before it
crumbles into bitter disappointment.

the real world wasn’t
good enough
anymore
for where were the elves and the witches and the
long-forgotten magic which would transport me away
from this dull grey cul-de-sac
and the green plastic swing
and the tree that wasn’t actually
inhabited by wood faeries?

my magic wasn’t real
the labyrinth wasn’t real
Hogwarts wasn’t real
the shire wasn’t real –
my imagination had lied to me without
apology
and the only thing left was
reality, which simply wouldn’t do.

the real world wasn’t
good enough
anymore
and though my dream catchers tried in vain to make it less so,
there was no escape, no reprieve
for an old soul in a child’s
body who wanted nothing more than to leave
behind mediocrity before fully comprehending what it meant:
wholly and entirely trapped, with the solid comfort of awakeness
no longer reassuring

the real world wasn’t
good enough
anymore
though the tendrils of hopelessness and
boredom were worse than any cruel sprite
my imagination might have conjured.

they bite at my tongue and scratch my eyes raw, teasing.

now, there are potions to make them all stop
but I’d miss the last remnants
of a real world that was good enough.