A little girl looks up at her mother,
She says “when I get older,
I want to be a doctor, or a poet,
A dancer, or a pilot,
A lawyer, or an artist,
A designer, or a pianist”.
Her mother tells her sadly,
“Baby, I want you to be happy,
And do all the things I couldn’t possibly,
And be all the things I could never be”.

Eyelids heavy on the I-30,
You kissed my hand and told me you loved me.
Not a soul on the road, just you, me and Biggie,
Looking at the sunrise you said, “Isn’t she pretty?”

At a bar near Grand Central Station,
Free flowing alcohol and conversation.
The steady sound of champagne glasses clinking,
In celebration of new beginnings.
Strangers drunkenly exchanging digits,
With the hope of a quick backdoor exit.

It’s almost half past eleven,
This feels strangely like heaven.
Blink-182 playing in the background,
While we sing along in an off-key sound.
The dinner plates waiting to be put away,
I hope they can understand the delay.

Some sort of checklist people have,
That may be found in a photograph.
It could be a one way ticket to Budapest,
Or scaling the top of Mount Everest.
Seeing the Eiffel Tower and Mona Lisa,
Or a picture with the leaning tower of Pisa.
Swimming with turtles in the Bahamas,
Or exploring Peru in search of llamas.
Lying on white sandy beaches in Sicily,
There’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.

A natural yet cruel reminder,
That we all have a hidden number.
Of decades, or years, or months, or days,
Left on this world, before we fade away.
“Grandpa had a fall in the middle of the night”.
And you start praying that he can win this fight.  
“Grandma has cancer and it’s terminal”
And you start hoping for a proper miracle.
“Your uncle Ben can’t walk without a cane”
And you start blaming God for all this pain.

Is it a place that people visit?
A desert with a watering hole in it.
Is it a person that you adore?
Making you laugh till your ribs are sore.