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. . . . . . I wish I was a stripper poet. I want each line to bare a little more of my soul. But strippers need to be comfortable with their bodies and I think my soul needs to hit the gym. What colour is my soul? The white of cigarette smoke, the black of my clothes, the brown of dried tea leaves or has the color of other souls washed onto it leaving it a confused mixture of green, orange and blue. I wish I was drunk, my writing these words word be more acceptable then but I'm not, the only intoxicants I've known recently are painkillers. Cheers.
. . . . . . . I wish I was an actor, but pretense gets harder as we grow older. No more ruling GI Joe forts, no more world cup win against the wall. No more pretending the feeling is truly love, no more long phone calls pretending to be engrossed in the meaningless conversation. My guitar now is a real guitar but I played cleaner notes on my tennis racquet while listening to swamp thing. No more capes, no more scripts. Pretense gets harder as we grow older, my grandmother can't even pretend to walk or remember my name anymore. Maybe thats what death is, the end of the final pretense of being alive.
. . . . . . .I wish I was a lover. Wish there was still enough naivety, still enough blindness. Was she the most beutifull girl there ever was? It sure was a great mirage. Maybe I should have just stood there and let myself be decieved but I kept walking and my oasis vanished right into the desert air. Was our love divine? Is anything? Both answers have to be the same. But the past has been let go off, it only haunts me now when a paper threatens to stay blank unless I invoke it. Will I l ever truly love again? Will I ever be truly loved again? I hope both answers are exactly the same.

. . . . . . .I wish I was guilty. I wish my sins defined me but I know they never will. It was too long back and they weren't evil enough. The inner devil is like the abdomen muscle, if you don't use it you lose it. I miss him though, Keneddy should have said, speak softly but alway carry a little man with a pitchfork and pointed tail on your shoulder. Maybe the workout the soul needs is to get this abdomen muscle back. I wish people were scared, if people respect the deception of the sign saying "beware of the dog" you don't have to shoot them. Beware of the gun . . . . no deception.
. . . . . . . .I wish I was me. I may not know who I am but I know who I'm not. I'm not the ailing body, I'm not a soul which will be defined by the colors other souls leave on it, I'm not a niccotene addiction, I'm not a pretender, I'm not someone who lives in the past, I'm not weak enough to need love to rebuild me, I'm not afraid of success, I'm not my sins and I'm not a string of words written in pain and anger. Yet you are who you are, even when you're not.
. . . . . . . Maybe a man is a combination of all he has been in the past, maybe a man is who he is or maybe, just maybe, a man is who he wishes to be. So who can I be? A gun waiting to smoke, an performer wanting to take a bow without saying his lines. With love in my past and with a future long enough for there to be no hurry.

. . . . . . . I am a poet, an actor, guilty as sin. I am the outsider, the mole, the pretender, the divine. I am just another human being but no one really is. I am the star and I am his public. I am nobody, but nobody is imperfect. I am the one the people who everyone wishes they were wish they were. I am the traveller at the start of his journey, deep inside somewhere I am the one who still believes, the one who still doesn't care. I am an immature man, an overgrown boy. I am my words, my unclear notes, I am the chemeleon, I can be any colour I choose.

I am me, time to stop wishing.