These dreams of the seaside.
This west coast wanderlust.
Maybe they’re just another way to wonder where HE is,
The mythical one and only whom I’m afraid does not exist.

I dream myself a poet,
Twisting words with the waves and the sunset shadows on Santa Monica sidewalks.
But I’m afraid of course,
And wake up worried that he won’t come,
And that my wave worn words are nothing by fluff and foam,
The washed up remains of another artist’s mind