Growing Older

I’ve never been one to ascertain truth from aspiration.

Am I the man I profess to be,

Or the boy trapped in an insecure reflection?

My pride lies dying in dreams deserted,

Scouring the sands for a fragmented purpose.

I loathe what remains of that adolescent boy.

His jaded eyes,

His face unshorn.

That little boy who’s outgrown his father.

A little boy who’s dreams I have now inherited.

Dreams that I have long hid away in agony.

Not the dreams that are acquainted with deep slumber,

But the dreams that keep you at night.

Pleading for answers,

Crying out a reason for our being here,

Begging for another good day.

And I always listen.

In this boy I have found plans impossible,

Inclinations unfathomable,

And still he wants more.

Guidance in the man I’m meant to be,

Is merely derived from the boy I once was.

That boy wants to be somebody.

I want to be somebody.

Now that I’m older I can discern hope from possibility.

But am I still the boy I avow to be,

Or the man who’s learned to dream?