listen, i'm getting too old for alot of things, but i'm not too old for words. for a baggy pair of jeans and silly socks. i'm not too old for wine in a paper cup and a wreckless decision every once in a while. i'm not too old for peter pan and i'm not too old to quote holden caulfield. i'm not too old to lay in my bed all day trying to get this story out of my skin, trying to burn it through the paper and leave my thumb prints hanging from each corner. i'm not too old to read books under my covers with a flashlight, not too old to stare at the stars night. i'm not too old to open my bedroom window and turn the smiths up, because that's the way the smiths should be played. i'm not too old to jump on my bed and refuse to wash my hair. i'm not too old to run around bare foot with a smile stuck on face even when times are hard. and i'm not too old to get out of here. next summer i'm taking off, to hear summer turn into autumn, to listen as the leaves in a park somewhere whisper stories in my ear, to fall asleep in the rose gardens and wake up when winter laughs under my sheets. to write letters back home on paper napkins, and to make light waves feel like experiences. to make mistakes, to write poetry on the backseat of a bus, to exchange a thousand awkward words with people i've never met, to do things i have never done on my own before, to fail miserably time over time, to fuck up and never ever ever ever give up.