'what do you
want to be when
you grow up?'

'what do you plan
to do with your life?'

'you can't make money
doing
that....'

this age old question
acts as
the intersection
between dreams
and reality

people ask this question
and i am rendered speechless
a voice lost in the
howling wind of promise

their piercing,
expectant gaze
like paparazzi
cameras

i put on a mask
my own shadows
loom in the night

'oh maybe,
i'll be a nurse
or a pharmacist'

i am safe
as warm approving
nods beckon

'oh i want to be
a writer'

nods turn
to disfavor
like a star
falling out of the sky

when has
authentic happiness
become a servant
to dishonest disinterest?
(b.d.s.)