I make-believe (usage in action)
To imagine
Myself more than I
Presently am.

Who does this,
But you, I, and we?

I watched the ducks when I was young.
My stout Abuela,
Shaped like a Hershey's kiss
On the precipice of melting
In the noonday sun.
(Often we would skip classes
To exist, in my eyes
In a time outside of academia's restrictions)
They moved
Without trepidation or question.

Never once,
Did they have to imagine
Themselves greater
To perform
The act of seeing the bread,
Seeking the bread,
And eating it.

To make-believe is to
Project
The act on a vehicle
Toward greatness; something greater
Than oneself.

The catch, at least
In debates of happiness,
One hopes, when one reaches said destination,
Fulfillment resides.

Does it?

Or is happiness in the act
Of progress?

I am no sculptor
But untouched marble possesses an aura of hope
Versus the finished product;
An object of tourism and eventually
Falsely defined goals.

As Rimbaud spoke of arrow strings
Pulled back deep in the pools of mysticism,
I make-believe
I know
What the hell that gun runner meant,
Or what,
That hellion was feeling.

To inspire
Is to spur
Evolution.

In that sense
Is not all art
A variation of God, no,

Mother Nature?

I like to think so.

I hope so.

I believe until

Tomorrow.