if you could back and meet your 5 year old self...
what would you say?
would you tell them who you are?
would you give advice, assuming you wouldn't jeopardize the final product that is you?
or would you let it be...
would you simply observe,
take their perspective into consideration
and try to learn from a simpler,
transparently benevolent state of mind?
the word naive instantly puts forth
the thought of an unintelligent point of view.
but i think to have a mind set,
that of a less-experienced self,
may in fact help a more exposed psyche.
the world is so full, in the sense that,
we learn so much by the time
we are old enough to deem ourselves intelligent,
that we forget to think of things more simply.
we base everything off of mass, habitual tendencies:
the way we are used to thinking instead of
what is right,
or what is logical,
or makes makes sense based off of fact
and not emotion
or instinct of habit.
at the age,
although me may feel it effortless to imagine a sense of self,
we dont do so.
we feel less self conscious
but never think of ourselves from anothers perspective,
not to say we are selfish
but we are reactive in a much more intelligent way
than our minds slowly evolve to be.

I daydream of dreaming
a dream:
comfortable and surreal.
In it, an antique shop full of character
and the scent of mothballs and dust.
A haphazard maze of dark lit corners
pulls me to its depths,
where nestled in the back,
is a perfectly imperfect piano.
Ironic how the blatantly splintered key
is the most out of tune, no?
In this dream within a daydream,
I sit on a squeaking stool,
foot on a loose damper,
and play all that I know.
In this dream to be,
I know not,
or recognize what I play,
but know it's home
and find peace in knowing.
The name Chopin
would be the faintest
of underlying memories,
but the first upon waking.
All we are is what we are not,
and were I dreaming this dream,
that notion would live in my being;
in the pockets of my marrow
and in the pit of my throat.
No Steinway could produce
such a twang so unimaginably beautiful.
Only the physically appealing use the word ugly,
and only the true understand the word beauty.
In my dream to be,
I watch myself,
but feel the keys
as they disintegrate
after violently being yanked from slumber.
Would I dream,
I would gasp and reach in wake,
grasping nothing,
and yearn again
to live without
vivid self awareness.
Yet when conscious,
I seek lucidity,
despite the comfort
found in effortlessness.
So snap me out of it.
Slap the porcelain saucer
that is my cheek,
for I am no Poe,
and this no "dream within a dream"
but a waltz
with the idea of serendipity.

Shes so bi-polar, the way that she acts;
so full of love and then so full of hate.
****-grinned, she sees how my body reacts.
Sometimes I wonder just how we relate.

I ask nothing of her, but good intent,
and she will rarely provide nothing less.
She'll usually cause my joy to relent
After which leaving my mind but a mess.

The skeptic then scoffed,"Too good to be true."
Looking back, he was undoubtedly right
Someone so loving and vivid as you,
could not endure such a night without spite.

So I will cling onto my sanity,
as you get a grip on your vanity.

I shan't let myself type, write, or udder
the word that the oh, so shallow misuse.
The term that hopeful, gutter ****** mutter;
but empty (should it, a hallow abuse).

Confused is the callow boy full of thirst,
due to courtesans words, so misleading.
The harlots fight over who will be first
to devour his heart, warm and bleeding.

Fleeting is usually how I define
ones faux and improper use of the word.
If down pours the rain, and water is wine,
then wet lushes slur convictions: absurd.

You'll never know what you've got til its dawn,
and out comes the word, all consciousness gone.

I would feed you crepes
while the city sleeps,
every night,
until I die
or until my whisking arm
gives out.

When I gasp with adrenaline
as you corner the road,
does it drive you crazy,
as you drive me
mad
to buy doughnut holes
at 3 A.M. ?

We share an addiction to lazy behavior,
but differ in our love
for coke,
for coffee.
For what?

When we broke years worth of tension
I thought it would be
more like
snapping a dried, autumn twig,
the crack of a whip
or dropping
a florescent tube light-bulb.

Instead it was that of morphine;
warm and gradual,
if at all.
I'm sorry I made such delusions,
held you high as perfection:
an irretrievable beast.

I thought myself shallow
in thinking
I was finally better than you
at something.

Now I think myself shallow
in thinking
I could do without you
because of your behavior
or lack there of.

I was wrong.
I thought I found
the disappointment
enough to
quench my lust.
But I'm yearning
just as ever,
even knowing what I'm missing.

So I'll sit here,
knowing we crave
the same basics
and differ
in specifics.

I'll sit here writing
as I watch you sleep.
I'll wait
as our ****** tension
slowly grows back,
like a forgotten
perennial ,
once again
making itself evident
and waiting for the
shing
of the garden shears
to snip its stalk
like a taught thread.