do you dream?
the dream of child fighting for the freedom to dream:
truly a wonder,
a devious one at that,
how you give us the offer —
“pick your poison.”
that’s what the template read,
but i wonder,
who picked one for us?
for it isn’t what we’d have chosen
under any circumstances,
except perhaps when we were young.
there’ve been far too many moments
and mistakes, if one might count them,
and no, they weren’t all the foolish ones.
we weren’t ever so naive
or defiant and pliant,
but we were forced to become.
like statues being birthed out of tough soil,
permanent cracks, no one to smooth them out
or fill them up, leaving us to harden and spoil.
we think we’re the only ones defective,
and even though you retaliate,
why is it that we find so much otherwise,
proving you did think of us as quantitative?
so much difference,
tallying us based on talent meant to be achieved at birth,
and giving the stare of indifference?
we could apologize, if it were meant to change,
but that mentality you have is bringing us nowhere.
day and night, we fake the promise of show and tell,
we dream, watch the skies align,
but not one bud swells,
not a single one shines.
the gardens of our hopes,
shattered to the core,
as if the earth were a willing participant —
or perhaps it’s a calling for us?
ricocheting, echoing, woes of this misery,
wallowing in the depths, screams mere imagery.
so far along in this game of life,
no one to answer the plead of our flight.
and so, we disappear
into the unknown,
that one darkened night
when you finally leave us alone.
hopeless cases, that’s what we hear,
our thoughts our own
to torment and to carry.
we’ve steered so far on our own,
one day, we might as well reappear
to bury
what we were and what we’ve become.
formerly wished you’d regret,
but we’ve come so far —
we’re way too merry.
the dream of a writer, unable to write to make a life:
us, who we are,
merely moral greys,
in between.
we hold ourselves
to words
that have been spoken
and shared,
sent wrapped in presents,
hiding the despair.
often a misconception,
what has been proven?
we look around,
and we see
more of such haven.
they hold the truth,
those painted on the walls,
held in memories,
heard in halls.
echoes and woes
of the ones who’ve been happy —
so it seems, at least,
to everyone who’s petty.
so i cried tonight,
and i’ll hold you to it.
you keep me dear
and tell me to remain clear
of everything unsaid,
kept away, stored for ages.
it’s ghastly in sight —
those eyes and that memory
that has faded.
the dream of the one who cried to a phantom and lost his only one:
and what do i do if i’m soaked in red?
it’s coming out of my eyes,
it just won’t stop.
they’re burning,
with every drop that cascades down my face,
rolling almost beautifully.
what an artist would say —
but i’m one myself,
and i wish to picture it,
but it turns out to be fake —
so transparent, so salty, as if it’s merely water.
am i the only one who senses it so?
and alas,
i ain’t no painter, perhaps even if i was.
instead of portraying my own likeness to burn,
i’ll forever only be able to picture who,
for it isn’t me,
who has been the muse all this while.
as time runs.
the dream of someone who has been trying to look on the bright side of it whole:
to have a silent presence such as the moon
almost like a friendship
always following in peace
like the arms of a lover
to fall back to the care of an overlooker
providing strength and support
ever so slightly ready to protect, shall time arise.
to be the moon or to be wanted by a being as such
is perhaps one of the greatest epiphanies.
hey look! the moon’s following me! you too!
it’s following all of us — the night wanderers, the dreamers, the ones who hope, the lovers and the derogatory sad ones as well as the ones seeking friends with the dark.
the dream of a romantic, who lost it to delusion:
make me your baby, tell me so — that you only love me.
i want to know.
how do you see me? i want you to know — how i dream of you, when you hear me.
to roll in your arms, and sleep by you — i will kiss all your scars, and hold you too.
my own words, promises that i keep. i’ll stay by, in anger and pain.
and weave my fingers through your hair every time you’re tired,
hug you every time you weep.
i’ll keep you close, pull you close against my chest,
and let you hear this heartbeat — increase, double over, and trip —
as i bring your face closer to mine.
kiss away your tears,
grip your pain,
let it seep away from your existence.
you’ll be mine.
i’ll be your happy gain.
the dream of a realist, striving to find human’s weaknesses:
had an apple today,
and writing this out
hate to give them the credit,
for what they say
seems to be pretty honest
and valid in my case.
a shiny red apple
that almost seems like it’s waxed from the outside.
you’d never know
unless you take a bite, and a few more,
just how rotten the core could be from the inside.
usually the ones that carried marks in the peel
i used to cut / carve them out.
kinda worked like i made them heal!
except this once i bit,
and a bit some more —
what reached out to me
was a smelly, rather old, rotten and poisonous looking core.
writing this out,
i hate to give them the credit.
they’ve all been honest.
humans often carry cores such rotten
that they **** you through,
and you feel like you’re poisoned.
those carrying dents from the outside
are often safer and better —
but alas we all go for the shiny ones
that are bright red apples.
the dream of someone who lost hope and held hands with reality:
you know the way light falls through the creak of an open door
and falls nowhere else, but to the floor,
creating a shape, a contrast to whatever lies within the room —
or it could be outside, but it’s a sight so blue.
there’s so much bright, and yet i lie in this darkened room,
waiting for something, something i can’t recognize,
but waiting for it to come true.
it’s almost similar to writing,
when i do not know how my thoughts intend to flow.
i’m not my own but of them,
of all them who make me up
and bring me to console.
there’s some part of me that likes to romanticize everything,
almost like the world was my oyster and i could be anything.
such isn’t possible, of course, and i’m no deluder,
but it’s for a cause —
that i look around for the tiniest of details.
such i did with the light falling through that tiny place,
the door that i left open, unknown to myself,
until the sun christened and promised to tilt on its axis
in a particular way, reminding me there’s so much bright.
why do i have to put myself and my thoughts and lock them away?
i could view the world —
on days when i’m too bold to the earth,
or when i see the roots and the branches fall,
or even as i listen to the cries of those who swell.
there’s no rose-tinted glasses but these are my eyes,
and sometimes i can’t help but wish the world was a bit more alight.
not on fire — no, that’d be a crime,
but with brightness, with the sun and even with the moon,
cause both shower what is often needed by those who walk —
down, staring up, sometimes dreaming and sometimes praying.
to lose a train of thought and to let myself be —
it’s just — just the testimony
that these are all the things that make up me.
i dreamt too.
and for my next trick,
i shall make you presume none of these have been written by me.
for they’re ages old and the dreams of someone who loved to dream,
basic necessities, they ignored.
thus it is at six am that i write this, to bring it to life.
they’ve now all grown old.
old drafts are cringe