That’s what I like to tell myself I am when,

after deciding I’m going to write the best poem of my life,

the part of myself that wants to close his eyes and spin into steam,

not unlike the bath he just stepped out of breathed,

picks up my hands and tucks my fingers into their respective keys

for as long as it takes for me to finally awake from my dream

of being more than I am,

feeling invigorated

and ready to accept my disenchantment

floating like an air biscuit back to my delusional nose,

with the utmost humility,

and yet, if given the choice to eat Hagen Daz,

I’ll take the Pomegranate flavored dark chocolate covered variety,

that crackles how tired or disciplined writing drips poems.

I don’t reveal my choice to be reckless with my desires

because I’m always hoping to become something sweeter than hope,

my own hands holding my face up to my lips and asking

sleep into daylight,

but a “good morning” will do just fine.