The dreamers still dream while their dreams are still there.
All bold and naive - few nightmares to interfere - with a dream that compels and compulses, persuades and convulses the veins of a dreamer to never slow down; to never slacken the pace.
Running after their dreams as if in a race.

The dreamers still dream while their dreams are still there.
All young and naive and bold enough to dare
to chase after their dreams at a breakneck pace
through insult and injury and shame and disgrace.

The dream shines on like a finish line in the mind of a dreamer.
Transforming the intangible into solid, graspable things.
Transforming fear and doubt into fuel to propel themselves towards achieving something thought impossible by all the non-dreamers, the non-believers, the bad teachers and ex-dreamers who've crossed their fingers in hope that the dreamer will fail.

Because why should they succeed when they've already bailed?
They gave up on that dream. It's impossible, you see.
That ship has sailed.

But the dreamer knows better.

Through sheer persistence and force of will,
the dreamer dreams still,
and finds a way to **** the naysayers' doubts and come out on top.
Staying true to themselves and belief in that grand thought:
that they can make their dreams a reality.

And when they do, the doubters will drop their jaws,
stand up and applause,
shed tears at the fact that their long abandoned dreams are now staring back at them,
intact.

And they'll realize that what they saw before as foolishness and naivete,
was really just the courage they lacked.

Even some of the darkest things can shine differently in the rose-tinted hue of the rearview mirror.

Especially when it reflects the roads that aren't even there to drive down anymore.

I've sworn before, that I'll never venture those paths again.
But sometimes I find myself wandering aimlessly and then,
lo and behold,
here I am,
parked in front of that same old oak and thinking about only God knows when.

Random tidbits of ragged laundry hung out to dry a century ago.
And forgotten about,
until just now.

But it's hard not to say, that I miss the way those old threads clung to my body. The sway they held over me when I wore them. Way back then, when I slid through them everyday.

Everyday, just spent sliding away.

And now I've come back.

Twisted guts while trying to pretend to be someone that I'm not.
Excusing myself after a Freudian flub.
Retreating to the bathroom to throw my guts up.
Hoping no one will notice me lying in the tub.

Draw the curtains and close myself off.
I'm not the person I wanted you to believe I was.
Now I can't leave because I've overcommitted to the cause.

Sleep in porcelain and dream of what I've lost.

Future hermit reconciling his (albeit short-term) commitment to a career in mass communication.

Every obligatory conversation, every concern to extend the web of networking, every not-so-subtly coerced public interaction feels like an embedded knife being slowly extracted.

How exactly did I allow myself to be contracted into something so antithetical to so many aspects of my own personality?

What in the hell could have possibly possessed me to do such a foolish thing?

Foolish me.

I knew what I was doing, though whether or not it was out of some well-meaning ambition to round out weaker abilities or just one giant masochistic way of up-ending everything in a giant '*******' to how I'd been living remains a mystery.

Forcing myself to live a life outside of my comfort zone, I find it exhaustingly, unendingly -and altogether understandably-uncomfortable.

Am I learning something?

Undoubtedly, but I'm not necessarily thrilled about the insights that've been endowed on me.

Oh you Salingers. Oh you Brandos. You Plaths, DFW's and Garbos. You Fischers, Goulds and Hughes.

You lonely and abused. You gray, black and blues.

You at least left legacies before retreating into solitude.

When you get into the mindset of
"I'm going to write some poetry tonight,"
you start thinking in lines,
and,
if you're corny like me,
you end them all in rhymes.

But then, while you're doing some innocuous thing,
like peeing,
you find yourself thinking of something
that you think might sound pretty great.

Then you sit down to type it out,
but they've all gone away.

Like a flock of birds,
as soon as you sprint to catch one,
they all dissipate.

You're left there empty-handed,
wondering how you're no longer comprehending
some amazing string of thoughts that had flown through your head just moments ago,
now so far beyond your understanding.

On paper, it seems,
like little more than a non-event.

Sure, I mean, there have been a fair share of extenuating circumstances in the interim. Novel experiences. In-office romances. A plethora of deserved and undeserved advances. Premature deaths.

Hell, maybe I've got it backwards. On paper, it seems much more exciting than it's been.

Truth is, when it's happening in the moment, it just feels like drowning. It's hard to distinguish between which wave is which when each one is just contributing to a collective denial of your next breath.

But I'm breathing now.

It's almost overwhelming.
My lungs are telling me to keep it this way.

But my mind is telling me different. It's saying,
"This is too much. Shut it down."

I used to spend so much of my time
thinking of clever things to say (and in rhyme)
So that I could await the day when I'd find
someone who understands my kind.

They'd come along and say,
"You're fine,
I totally get it - we're of the same mind."

We'd hold hands and frolic in the sunshine,
but I'm exaggerating - a habit of mine.

Certainly that's all a bit idealized,
but when I think about it,
I begin to realize
that this has already happened.
In fact, several times.

And it makes me happy,
and reminds me, besides,
that I have wonderful friends
and we'll be alright.