I sell dreams and memories at the marketplace,
In a back alley of this bustling city
We set up our stalls at noon, or 3, or we don't set up at all
Every third Sunday, or second Saturday
Amid the leather rings and pastel postcards and records,
Of artist that have yet to be,
I stand against an old brick wall with a hat at my feet
"Buy a dream, sweetest of black cherries,
Dripping waterfalls and lovers' gazes,"
I chant throughout the day.
I've got a little notepad with a magic pen,
They draw a circle and they see
Confused and drunk they sway before me,
Hooked on whatever plays behind their eyelids
They touch, taste, smell, hear, whatever I wish them to
"Buy a memory, repressed or treasured, melancholy extra,
3 quid for a memory"
Therapists have sent weary patrons traveling far and wide to me
I see their suspicious eyes as they throw money my way,
Some regulars come to me as druggies,
Some need me more than others,
They leave me bright-eyed but weary,
I never give a fantasy for free.

You keep going. You cut your losses and believe in your dreams and keep trying, even if all you take are small steps. You keep going.
Because trying is valid and trying is monumental and trying is okay because trying means effort and trying can be doing or can be nothing but trying is still another step, another day, another breath, another sentence, another goal, another intention
When the depression and hallucinations and hyper sensitivity and drone and anxiety and disassociation and vices and losses and hurts and exhaustion flood and you just, can't, anymore, you must
You keep going.

Someone slipped into my bed, last night
Carrying the scent of my perfume
They lifted the covers and curled against me
I turned and threw my legs over their slight, lithe frame
I awoke much the same, but alone, with the distinct feeling,
Someone slipped into my bed, last night

For what was once a saving grace,
I have now begun to suffer,
As all things I had once loved,
Have become burdens, undercover.

I am lost and alone in an empty home,
With as many tears as would make a sea,
I have written and fought and gallantly lost,
I have utterly forgot how to be me

But its etiquette has not.
Then there's its religion, prevalent, instilled.
Farms tilled the way their grandfathers' tilled.
Castles in ruins, or castles renovated,
They want to preserve, or let themselves become jaded,
On the richer histories this country provides,
They create better legends to tell tourists, all lies
"Here's the old world", they cry.
And the economy, the people, the change,
They tie it all up until only a mock-up remains,