Picture my Ideal Future Self
Everything was so small.
I speak now as if my future can be written in the past tense.
The image I have — that glimpse of a life that isn’t mine — yet:
An image I wish I could paint and breathe life into.
It was all so small — it fit perfectly in my head.
One chair, one room, one guitar –
Maybe two songs.
One pencil, one notepad –
Thousands of words scribbled inside like frantic ants scurrying throughout a broken home of dirt.
One voice, one sound.
Vocal chords laid on top of musical chords floating throughout the room with posters on the wooden walls staring at the hanging lights.
Four or five pairs of eyes on me — but only one that matters.
One set of eyes on me as I make my way through my set.
One set of eyes that I stare back at with a shy smile.
And everything is small and everything is perfect and everything is …
It’s a picture — it’s locked in a frame.
I sit here and wish I could break the frame and see what’s outside.
What moments does the frame leave out?
And the one moment is frozen colder than a relationship gone bad,
And why do I feel deep down like that picture is as real as the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow?