Things were easier when I was a boy:
beautiful, halcyon, simplistic.
Without the fallacies of the world,
I was a happy little boy,
without travesties of kisses and affection.
Dreams of princess brides littered my reveries
and ruminations.
Yet I am still no more than that boy.
But no-- I am a boy who has been disillusioned,
yet is not clairvoyant,
and convalescence just got harder from then on out.
Don Juan has nothing on my position,
because I'm in it for the win--
whatever that's supposed to mean.
And I'll keep on receiving your false kisses
and best wishes, but your best intentions
won't affect how impassive I've become.
Come,
shun my naivete,
call me neurotic,
notice my futility:
It's better this way, anyway.
Let me digress and say sorry for not being
what either of us needs.
I'll say sorry once more,
because this is just my amelioration,
the rationing of my feelings.
And this is me convalescing, being just the boy I used to be.