I wish I knew how to start a poem.
But we don't get everything we want.
Can still smell the freshly melted wax,
the whiff of wick smoke.
I wish I liked my body more,
‘cause there's nothing wrong with it,
except it's mine.
I wish my hair was straight,
and that I'm an interesting person when sober,
I wish I was stoned.
All I own for certain are my tattoos.
I wish I was fluent in French.
So that I could live in Paris
and draw cafes and churches all day long.
I wish I had something else to do right now
or at least a person with a mind to talk to.
I wish I could read the stars,
find truths in the black folds of night.
And while I'm being ridiculous,
I wish I could travel back in time to talk some sense into myself–
I'd explain:
"Everything is going to be relatively OK. So please, put the razor
down."
But we don't get everything we want.