A Door.

There’s a door.

Oh man, you’re screwed.

Now a door of four.

Don’t you dare misconstrue!

The door stands tall,

And compared to that damned door.

You’re so inexplicably small,

Last time I checked, I was 5’3 or 4?

Now I seem overcast,

By these towering wooden gates,

My brain’s current function is avast,

Is there any logical way of escape?

Yeah, no. I didn’t think so.

The ‘Door of Decision’,

How I’d contemplate, although.

Is it just all about precision?

The dreaded ‘Door of Decision’,

How generic-sounding, Yet intimidating and bold.

It’s the matured generation,

Weren’t you ever told?

How it stands nigh as high as you, at 4:20 high,

Don’t gasp at that line, I know you and I lie.

Tell do I, this to you this at an improper time?

The childish games we play,

It’s the highlight of our days; the paramount peak,

But soon have an end one day,

That’s called adolescence, you ugly freak.

You’re not there yet,

And frankly, neither will I,

I think we’d probably best need time.

To get used to that sour taste of society’s limes.

‘Tis soon with the passionate desires we find,

The key to that damned door that we never found as youth; completely blind.

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