A wistful poem about introspections and dreams, of fears and apprehensions, of courage and challenges and a tango with your thoughts.
if i took on the world, then perhaps i’d be a hopeless hedonist
unloving, but lovesick
yearning for a golden-eyed soldier to win the heart’s battle
to analyze my mental imperfections like physical pores on my skin
beg you, don’t mistake me for something as practical as a sponge or as ethereal as the moon.
if i took on the world, then perhaps i’d lose my vitality
i’d age within the silo of my mind
within the arms of Nietzsche
haunted by Tao
rendered hors de combat as i get old– youth, a dream.
if i took on the world, then perhaps i’d be under lethargy’s wing
remaining a façade,
lover by day, conquered and dull.
by night the world is mine to blossom, an overworked scholar;
like a blooming evening primrose in the depths of twilight.
if i took on the world, then perhaps i’d be nourished
conquering the world in the light of day before i fade away into slumber
i, the fragile morning glory being watered by the salty rain of my father’s tears
i never believed those tears would turn me into a rose;
evening primrose to morning glory to rose, in times of desperation he made me grow.
if i took on the world, then perhaps i’d be dancing alone
crippled by the bruised vanity of a lost child within;
once moved by the sound of her nursery rhymes.
standing at the center of a deep blue hollow ballroom,
large reflective moonlit windows
revealing the rivers of tears down my cheeks
no-one to hold, just me in a tango with my thoughts.
if i took on the world, then perhaps i may remain conceptual,
i’d be the shadow of lost ambition,
the ghost in an empty ballroom,
the margin between mental strength and weakness
the cliffhanger in a beautiful story
one day i’ll take on the world,
my thoughts will be slow-dancing with me,
wrapping around me, flowing through my mouth and in my head
off the tip of my tongue into sublime, lustful, and exotic prose
i will be the stranger skipping through a green field,
a silhouette heel-clicking on a lonely twilight street,
an ultramarine face smiling through the midnight cigarette smoke in a white cab,
the lonely figure on the roof under the stars – i will be the click-clack of chalk on a chalkboard,
the voice and heart of broken souls – the rustling sound of cash and poetry—
the restless sound of a lost kid,
philosophizing up at the cerulean sky,
back stroking through a salty deep ocean
waltzing to the sound of hymns in a lonely room,
nobody to hold except the pages of my sixteenth year,
evoked by that anxious eleven-year old heart
sitting at the corner of that yellowed racquetball court,
scrawny arms holding scrawny legs, head between my knees
because only i could comprehend the burden
only i could question such responsibility
only i could repent a forgotten youth
only i could evoke the firm soul inside me
only i could take on the world.
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