Wishlist.

I don’t remember writing this poem, but it found it’s way onto my draft messages on my phone (where most of my poems are born). I guess I was inebriated. Whatever was going on, I suppose I felt the need to write this down. So I did. Enjoy, it’s called Wishlist.

Wishlist.

I want to eat ice cream with you in the morning at a quarter to three.
I want to steal the covers
and I want you to let me.
I want to get a dog together
and raise it the proper way.
I want it to be my birthday every single day.
I want to finish that poem
and I want it to be good.
I want you to keep your promise, the one you promised you would.
I want to wear the right clothes at the right time and never be too hot or too cold ever again.
I want to play the piano without having to learn how to play the piano.
I want to eat pastry without putting on weight.
I want to get the best grades
and I want to be cool.
I want to leave my clothes on and jump into a heated swimming pool.
I want to lay on the sofa in my pants watching telly, eating crisps on a Wednesday lunchtime.
I want to finish that poem and I want it to rhyme.
I want to know what you’re thinking
and I want to get better
I want a Staffy, and a Dalmatian and a well-behaved Irish Setter.
I want to drink wine for breakfast and eat cereal for dinner.
I want to buy a scratchcard and it reveal that I’m a winner.
I want every poem I have ever written to be received in exactly the way it was intended.
I want everyone to have a nice time, even those friends that I unfriended.
I want to finish this poem with a sentiment that stays with those that hear it
but I’ve run out of ideas and all I’ve got left is bullshit.

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