Whimsical Ideas

Don’t I Deserve,
A dance in September, November, December.
A place to remember,
Blue moons and Black Lagoons,
Harlem nights without the fright.

Lollipop swirls of,
Carelessness,
In the face of
Bareless caresses.

Hope afloat,
On a cloud lined with gold,
With a soul of bold,
To fairy,
My chariot to walk this way.

Don’t I Deserve,
Memories that and of,
Choose to ensue,
To ensure,
A state of clarity.
Sincerity of mind and wit.
Foot prints in cement,
Of yesteryear,
Washed away in rain,
With yester’s fears.

Don’t I Deserve,
A wave of excitement,
With highest threshold potential, hold it.
To be swathed in an intangible sense,
Of silken indulgence.

How boring to be bored with,
A life of such zest,
An overzealous factor of overlooked,
In success.
As a square always has 4 corners,
4 points,
4 cracks,
4 crevices.
How boring is this?

Don’t I Deserve,
A book,
With no ending,
A man,
With no boundaries,
A job,
With no worries,
A cat,
With a bark,
A 5 cornered ball,
A tree without pollen and flowers the same,
Friends without issues,
News,
Without crime,
The cute shoes,
In my size,
A head,
Without ache
A heart,
With no breaks,
Breakfasts and dinners,
Completely of cake,
An unshatterred reality,
Of pure life in totality,
A world of equality,
In mind, body, and soul.

Is that being bold to ask of such things?
To inquire for more,
In my inner being.
To be of the questioning nature of type,
To be certifiably certain,
That things just aren’t quite right.

Why is everything of this tangible place
So undeniably set
In ways that make life
Certifiably tep-id.

Don’t I Deserve
To be blissfully kissed
By rays of the sun
During winter solstice
Or bathed in pure rain
Top of Plains in Spain
On cool rainy nights,
This is my plight.
But with my mightiest might,
Instead I ponder here and
Sniff and
Sneeze, and scratch,
And scritch.

Waiting for this…
Pollen dust to lift,
A life changing phone call, letter, or fax.

Waiting for…
The moon to rise,
The sun to set,
The water from above,
To crash here below,
Scenery new,
Change of projects,
Attempting to protect and secure,
That which is me.

I endure this life here,
Waiting for you,
Renew.

Or awakening in man,
The other parts of the brain,
Which remain,
Not in use.

Don’t I deserve?
To meet myself in you,
You, the one who can,
See and hear,
The real thoughts,
In my head,
Which are saturated in,
Dread.

For it is dreadfully true, that in,
This day during this age,
I may never meet you,
And this has placed in my spirit,
A woeful outlook this which is new,
This which is now,
That which is later.

So shall I continue to live,
For today.
Forgetting tomorrow,
Which is always on time.