Brutal Attempt To Honesty. (I've lost it).
You bring out the best in me.
My best has always been six years old,
at heart at least.
Self doubt.
Barbie dolls.
Dreams far too colossal for such flaccid shoulders.
Horrendous, innocent love.
My best was dispersed
and
you build me up
like the Legos
that used to domineer
my basement
and my landscape.
I’m not afraid
of being six again.
This time around,
I won’t abandon my dance lessons
or fall for the cool kids.
I’m not afraid.
My best is six.
In those days
I listened to Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
on the living room couch
and passed out on cushions
with floral designs
and you could be my melody.
I could drift off to sleep
listening to you whisper
about seasons.
I’m not afraid.
My best has always been six.
When I was six
the forest was my sanctuary.
The trees provided my refuge
from an elderly world.
Insects and forts and moss
were my world.
I couldn’t feel it slipping
in my imagination.
There was nothing to flee from
(Except for that unfortunate afternoon
when my foot went through the beehive.
Then I fled like I’d never be six again.)
Those are the things you awake in me.
Sticks.
Termites.
Sweat.
Dirt.
And every dream I misplaced
in light filtered through maple leaves
and the shadows that conceal
what was slowly slipping.
You found those forts I forgot.
You awoke the anthills and
innocent backyard excursions.
I’m not afraid.
My best has always been six years old,
at heart at least.
Self doubt.
Barbie dolls.
Dreams far too colossal for such flaccid shoulders.
Horrendous, innocent love.
My best was dispersed
and
you build me up
like the Legos
that used to domineer
my basement
and my landscape.
I’m not afraid
of being six again.
This time around,
I won’t abandon my dance lessons
or fall for the cool kids.
I’m not afraid.
My best is six.
In those days
I listened to Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
on the living room couch
and passed out on cushions
with floral designs
and you could be my melody.
I could drift off to sleep
listening to you whisper
about seasons.
I’m not afraid.
My best has always been six.
When I was six
the forest was my sanctuary.
The trees provided my refuge
from an elderly world.
Insects and forts and moss
were my world.
I couldn’t feel it slipping
in my imagination.
There was nothing to flee from
(Except for that unfortunate afternoon
when my foot went through the beehive.
Then I fled like I’d never be six again.)
Those are the things you awake in me.
Sticks.
Termites.
Sweat.
Dirt.
And every dream I misplaced
in light filtered through maple leaves
and the shadows that conceal
what was slowly slipping.
You found those forts I forgot.
You awoke the anthills and
innocent backyard excursions.
I’m not afraid.