I wish,
I wish I were Henry’s
Shakespeare or Miss Lancaster’s
Green. I no longer wish to be
the art but oh to be the artist
my soul thirsts like the traveler
in the desert and lingers in the valleys of thee.
I wish my hair were
dreadlocks. Oh, I wish they
were clean. And how I wish
again this fear never tantalized
me until I ask “Will you still see
the same me?”
I wish I were the music of the
Smiths or could I be the rap
of the century. But I still wait
and on the spider’s trap, I linger
wishing my song would make
his kindness more brave
than your love to live, I deem unworthy.
I wish I were the apocalypse on
your lips. Oh, I wish I was that pain
felt in your chest that prayed today
was your last sunset. But fair, they tell
me neither of these I am or can be.
I wish I were Monet’s brush
of unruly inks or maybe if I were
Karlovac’s shutters instead. But alas,
an empty easel I remain and my film
rolls down the floor unbetrothed again.
Or in other words,
I wish I were your lover instead.
Consider supporting me with a coffee if you stayed till the end.
