Peter? Is that you? Peter? Peter Pan?

I am not Billy.
I am Peter Pan
My father's name was Peter
and he was a pan.

I want to fly,
to escape into boyishness.
I want to be the child again,
running,
flying,
laughing,
free.

The little boy,
with the perfect parents,
perfect 1960's Mum,
perfect 1960's Dad,
perfect 1960's house,
with the lawn mowed,
perfectly,
by me,
the perfect 1960's boy.

Where has my role gone.
I've lost the script.
Where is the sunshine
and the splash
and the cool waters.
Where is that childhood
that ended well before my voice found a man inside,
the man that lives in the boy who doesn't know how to be either.

Who lied to me?
Who was it that groomed me for an adulthood that never arrived,
stealing my childhood in the process.
Who dreamed her dreams for me,
demanding the nightmares to be
"the right thing to do"
Who stole reality and forced the Brady Bunch World to
guide my hopes.

I am lost in pre-puberty.
I look in the mirror and the man doesn't make sense.
Who's reflection is this as I grow into the face of the
father I never was allowed to have.

Peter wants to find his "Wendylady"
and fly away to
"Neverland".

But,
I am not Peter,
I can't ever be Peter,
and I'm not Billy,
for Billy is a dream,
I am not yet me,
so,
Who will I be?
I am really alone.