Mess of Poetry

I wish I’d write more and I wish I would let people in
I wish my heart would stop pounding so hard
I wish I wouldn’t give myself such a hard time
and I wish people weren’t so cruel
I wish I hadn’t hurt the people I did, walked all over their beautiful intentions and their blue eyed goodbyes
I wish my guitar didn’t remind me of you
and I wish I’d play it for myself, just a few chords, to drown out the noise
I wish my hair was longer and my body was taller
I wish airplanes were my home and the road was my best friend
I wish society wasn’t so sick
and my bones could rest knowing they’re keeping me standing
I wish I could live off of writing poems about my old tortured teenage soul
and my growing, gleaming new one
I wish I could fall in love with something other than the sound of these keys
and the pain I cannot stop romanticizing
But I’ve fallen for the fleeting mess of poetry
And it has taken all of me