He may be a hero
Or a villain
Perhaps a thief
Most certainly a good man.
Sometimes his hair is short
And sometimes it's a vibrant red.
Sometimes black as a crow.
The designer really changes her mind.
He's tall
Sometimes he's a kid
Often my age
Seldom he could be my dad.
He speaks english
And french
I heard him once talk in spanish
Or maybe was it latin?
He's always blurry
But he sits next to me
He's not in a hurry
He holds my hand and talks sweetly.
Oh this, it never changes
He always talks a lot
He never stops talking and laughing
And he never lets go of my hand.
Whether he's a kid
Or my age
Or an old man
He never lets go.
Sometimes I wonder why
He holds onto me all the time
Every night coming back
Like a boat to his anchor point
Maybe if he went away
We'd lose track of one another
End up in different realms.
I don't want him to let go.
I don't know who he is.
Or what he looks like.
I just know him, like nobody does
And I think he knows me too.
My blurry minded idea
My imaginary friend
He comes to me in my dreams,
And when the daylight shines
I miss him so.
Reality isn't as sweet as dreams can be.
YOU ARE READING
Poems, introspection, and other thoughts
PoetrySome poems are random, some describe dreams that I had, some describe people I know. Some of them just exist and I don't remember what inspired me. (Sleep deprivation, surely) Mostly a medley of hope, melancholy, violence and beauty. Well, at least...
