Keep in mind, this is part of a dream
which, in fairness,
I have to say that my dreams are beyond me.
But this one . . .
This one was beautiful
(to me)
I want to embody more than just me.
You know?
No, I want to be more than who I am
and more than just myself.
I want to embody the world.
I want to take on the light of life
so that I will never walk in darkness
or be in the dark again—unless, of course,
I choose to be,
which is fine at times
because I can see my dreams more clearly
in the dark.
I want to take to the road ahead of me. Can you see this?
I want to drive off with a nighttime theme,
as in driving down a long, open road,
nothing lonesome, nothing to stop me.
There are no red taillights ahead of me,
no headlights behind me, and as for anything else,
there is nothing more than a long desert road
outstretched with a glowing moon, full and blue,
like the kind of moonlight
that beams through your window
with a soft electric hue.
I want the moon to touch down where my dream is
on the road across the middle-America emptiness—
which is the long highway, or an open road,
with nothing around me but my cherished thoughts,
omitting the emptiness of otherwise dreary ideas
or thoughts of impending doom.
No . . .
Those are things in my past.
There is nothing in-between me
or the fulfilling dream of being on the road, of course,
with no destination in mind and ah yes,
the empty road beneath a nighttime sky
is enough to remedy the heart and soul,
which is improved by the sound of music,
which is not too loud or least of all,
loud like my youth would always intend it to be.
No, this is a different trip.
I am free in this dream.
Of course, I am.
And I as me, or you as you, or us as us,
and the world at hand is in complete and total unison,
or otherwise at peace, as if to groove perfectly,
or as if to complement each other in harmony.
And yes, I find myself in full and total amazement
that freedom like this can be felt at an age like ours.
What a trip, I say.
I am older now but younger too.
Then again, perhaps one could say
that this is a choice, or that being young
or to be youthful
is no different from the decisions we make
when choosing to go left or right,
or where to cross the street,
or which subway car do we sit in
when taking the 4, 5, or the 6 train.
I want it this way.
Yes. Of course, I do.
To be young.
To erase my mouth from the angry words
or the sayings that stir the nonsense
between me and the rest of the world.
Yes, I want to be young, as if to be infinitely young,
and ongoing like the evolution of life.
Yet, my age can change by number,
but my heart can beat forever this way.
young and hopeful
(I hope)
I want this.
I want the missing pieces of my true self
which had been lost or forgotten somewhere
or misplaced and thus,
I found that I lost myself to inaccurate priorities.
But, I’m back now.
I swear, I am.
I want to be young but aware,
which is how I am now—just older
and aware that life is fleeting,
and aware that time is ticking,
and aware that life happens, life changes, people evolve.
Although I want to be aware of this,
I want to be blessed with an awareness
which screams that nothing is ever over—at least
not the good stuff or the real stuff,
which is evident to me,
like you and I for example,
like the trials and the risks, the fights or the battles
the hurt, the pain
or the trips and falls, and the hard lessons,
the unfortunate past, which is amazing to me
because despite it all, we are still here,
somehow, and crazy as ever.
Perhaps I want to be unforgivably aware
that fun like this might come with an expense.
But okay. Fine.
So be it.
I’ll pay the fare.
And I as me and you as you, behold, the everlasting need
to dare the edge of human life,
and behold the need to feel,
or to scream, or sing out loud, or to dance,
and behold the drive and the desire,
or the feeling of going far beyond mortal terms
and to move beyond the stages of simple life,
which has gone wild, long ago.
Behold, the threshold of sanity
wild enough that we have crossed the threshold
and crossed over to the point
where even mortality can do nothing to me, or you, or us
nor can this hurt or destroy
anything in the full spectrum of love
because our love is still young. Hence,
this is what keeps me youthful.
I want to feel this way.
I want to burn with lust
and hold the refusal to grow up
or lose hope, and yes,
I want to live like a prince in ongoing castles,
which never end or fade or sink into sand.
Ah, yes, my dreams . . .
I want them to be like unlimited coins,
free of all charges,
and plentiful to put in the coin slot of infinite games,
which neither of us play with any mischief. But
before we move on, please
allow me to pretend to be human for a moment
or mortal for a second, or if anything,
let this dream be real enough so that I can call myself human
which I never call myself, nor want to,
because to be human means too many things
that can often be hurtful or tragic, or misspoken
or misunderstood.
I agree with Twain when he said
man is the only animal that blushes . . .
or needs to.
I blush,
And I know why too.
This is fine with me because I understand;
this is only life, —but okay, I can still dare the edge.
I can take a risk too and
thread a needle through the eyelet of my dreams,
like shooting a bullseye, perfectly, and score, a direct hit;
as in right where I want this, at dead-center mass
where your love’s bayonet
has pierced my chest and stabbed my heart,
which is a willing target
and beating fast at the moment.
Mind you, these are words,
which only come from the heart
and not the mind, which is how I would prefer them
because the mind tends to bend
and misshape my diamonds in the rough.
The mind is why this man
is the only animal that blushes
or needs to.
I want this dream.
I want the submission of forgiveness
and I want this to take place.
I want the absolution of pardons, and I want this now,
all too much and all too fast
because once more, you have stolen my heart.
And there is no coming back.
You have changed my world but above all,
you have changed me from a figurative speech
to a literal sense
or meaning of a word called love.
I see myself in this dream.
driving at night
down a long road –
the dashboard lights illuminate
the soft glow across my face.
The stars and the moon
light my way and, in this case,
the end are the means
which fortify my existence
and validate my truth.
I am alive.
I am cruising now.
I am seeing the horizon take on a thin beam
of morning light,
which has yet to come, But I know . . .
the day is ahead
and just like that, all will be healed.
No pinprick.
No pill.
No serum.
No . . .
This is a high of another sort.
High as ever
Euphoric, blissful,
beautiful to say the least and yes—
behold, the other side of life
where the good guys live
I wonder if they sell a good slice
of pecan pie here
or, maybe peach.
You think?
The Written Addiction 