Swings and things

I remember when playtime
booked me too solid
to need vacation.
Times were less timely,
even the lions
played with mittens.

They say we grow wise
yet we pine for our dolls
and first kisses in swings
while searching for a knife
to return our stolen
brown-bag-lunch smiles.

Perhaps youth is a lie
that fools us into hope
that we are all equal
and that all is fair
in milk and cookies.

Do you even know me?
Am I nothing more
than your receptacle
to beat on-
blow up inside-
disappoint (again).

I barely know myself
anymore...