Do you know what I mean?

Hold me tighter.

Tell me when I'm wrong.

Smoke less.

Answer the phone.

Be strong when you talk to me;

ask me how I'm doing.

Manifest as my King.

But, oh - when you look at me,

I feel so completely

adored,

safe and sound

assured.

You sweep me off the ground.

Talk more.

Take me out and about.

Let us shout,

and make up between sheets.

Push me down accordingly

Wear the crown,

metaphorically.

Improve, improve, improve;

and prove your love.

Move me, twirl and whirl.

But don't take this personally,

I wouldn't change you for the world.

What am I supposed to do?

Should I talk with my arms outstretched

or sing with bare feet?

Should I write by candlelight and then discard the sheet,

With which I ponder despite inevitable defeat.

I have no definitive ideas regarding my path or vocation, and

have little belief in self-innovation.

Do I like who I am? 

Who am I?

Should I ask you?

Will you answer?

Does it matter?

I guess not.

The world is both too small and too big for such questions, and yet

is both too short and too long to avoid them.