Like a soft lullaby,
You take me away, to a land,
Where I can be myself,
You set me adrift in an ocean of dreams, where majestic creatures soar.
I have found that while,
I may yet be dreaming,
This seems to be, yes I’m sure, quite possibly,
If it is not, I do not care to know,
What reality is nor why others choose to be there.
For I must admit, my dear,
That though I am simple,
Ignorant and foolish,
You are my reality.
I write about love, I sing about love, I talk about love, and yet what love is there in my life? What love exists? My friends all tell me that they love me and I reciprocate their sayings. But feelings? Feelings?! What do I know of them. I’m eighteen. I’m young and foolish. I’m ignorant and on top of the world. And for all my robustness, swaggering around like I know everything, and over inflated ego, I’m still a child. Not a man, nor a young man. Childish, silly, but happy. I’m happy not knowing love. I admit more so than anyone that I’m not ready to experience it. I don’t want to experience it. It will happen, one day I’m sure. Love for someone other than myself. Until that day though, I find that I am content with my wanderings in the woods, my exploration of river beds, and my foolishness.