Staring up at the cosmos with the 6 year old gleam in my eyes. A smile creased upon my face, my chest warmed over in eternal bliss, wiping the dirt off my shirt 4 the next person to cry on. The childish remembrance of my daydreams of a poet perched atop the stars and galaxies when every thing was simple not intertwined with the cursed and vexed with the complications of the ordinary and mundane. Lyrics and bars that flows o' to swiftly, a river of rhythm washing away my past sins and the new ones in which I had just so recently pardoned and begged for forgiveness upon the dawn of the new day. Truly instrumental am I? So to the point in which I have taken my past lyrical standpoints in which to clean away the slates of my life? It must be so. I speak in a lyrical tongue, abandoned by the masses of the world that speak by means of business and war tactics. Dream in rhyme and color, bass and jazz notes that remain forgotten to urban eardrums. So do I accept the same fate that so many faced? The fate that took away the vivid dreamers and left them with the dull and droned shell of a suited businessman? Or do I continue to dream? Dream like the inner child rising ever so slowly to the surface of this young poet still perched atop the infinite cosmos, writing down the ballads of lost dreams and unspoken emotion and the unearthed rulers that walked upon this earth so valiant and prideful, tipping the universal scales of humanity? Refusing to conform to these godforsaken standards, my own man, my own voice, my own soul, not for the public to decide who I wish to be. So my soul lie with the universal poet atop the rings staring down at the people but looking up at the heavens like that of a wanting child awaiting a gift from the elderly. A nocturne in his profession I wish to be, tranquil like the sound of saxaphonic notes and pianist cords. Not lined in my destiny but infused with my spirit lies that of an eternal child. Forever kept inside his beating heart and heaving chest of the aging youth in order to keep him sane, to hold his composure from shattering and fading away into an eternal abyss. Still alive. Still giggling. Still aware. Still there to keep him alive and laughing as well. The child of lyrical standpoints freely roaming the conscience of the aging youth, blocking out all his worries and troubles, the child that works so hard to survive in his troubled mind, pushing away rather than being pushed. He knows what is bound to happen if he lets those ghastly demonic thoughts of the known and unknown take over what he worked so hard to create and maintain. He'll die one day, but the child inside him wants him to be great when he does.//