I have wishes of greatness too
Except in the evenings, I am indecisive
Susceptible to blunt songs, somber poems, and timid chatters
of youth. I’ve lost count of how much I’ve held out my hand
Wishing I could spell my name on another’s lips
And just like in love, I am afflicted by a strange feeling
of not being enough. The nights are wistful embers of an
inverted desire of belief. I don’t believe enough except today
I run away to congratulate myself on what little I’ve achieved
Realizing that something sets us looking for fulfillment,
sweet memories to show that if we could only feel this longer
all inadequacy would be shred. I comprehend that
the loneliest people have a stock of wishes
But I see myself differently, as if that gives me hope for more
I do not recognize these things. I don’t want to think of life again
Only to dazzle at the person that I am … miserable when I reflect
How routine is eating away at my youth.
The only reality of wishing is hoping I could feed my desires
In a life meandering its way through evenings I stare unto the sky
to say goodbyes until nothing remains. There should be more, I guess
though I really don’t wish for it. I no longer pray
I live my days capturing moments like everyone else
Except that I want to write when I think about the face of God


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