What do you want with me, small boy?
Donning your father’s regalia, playing at being a grown up.
Stirring up feelings in me you cannot handle, and then leaving because I am suddenly “too much”.
What do you want with me, small boy?
Daring me to hope, to wish; taking me out of this world, showing me an intergalactic trail only to return, mere minutes later, and suffocate me with bland reality.
What do you want with me small boy?
My heart?
My mind?
My body?
My tears?
None of it is enough.
None of it will ever be enough for you, small boy, wearing his father’s clothes and playing at being a grown up.
YOU ARE READING
Quiet women and other myths: A collection of musings
PoetryI wouldn't go so far as to call this poetry (which would imply that *I* am a poet), but I can safely call this a collection of musings, thoughts and sometimes badly strung up words about anything and everything.
