It is easy enough
to wish all the world would love us,
to strain for fame,
to claim a name
synonymous with success
living life at its best.
It is great for the rest
but for me I’d prefer to be
true to myself even though
I don't know exactly who he is.

Those that love,
Get their hearts broken.

Those that trust,
Get hurt.

Those that have faith,
Get disappointment.

But,
Those that don't get heartbroken,
Those that don't get hurt,
Those that don't get disappointed,
Don't know what is feels like to be truly alive.

Upon a shooting star i ask -
Send me under the graveyard's grass.
Yet though my wish has been granted -
It was my heart that whent while
My brain stay'd planted.

It is a night where I must craft my words
or try to weave lines on a broken loom.
To think a poem will spring forth is absurd.

Stillborn inspiration can't be stirred,
emotions drained away. I must assume
it is a night where I must craft my words.

My prayers to Muse fell back to earth, unheard.
All artistry has booked a separate room.
To think a poem will spring forth is absurd.

Striving merely churns my brain to curds,
its thin gray whey runs down some gutter's flume.
It is a night where I must craft my words.

A cadenced resolution's been deferred,
the last two lines will surely be my doom.
To think a poem will spring forth is absurd.

A peaceful flow of writing is deterred
until my buried spirit is exhumed.
It is a night where I must craft my words,
to think a poem will spring forth is absurd.

I want*        to change     my ideas
to change   the world       for the better
the world    but           my life forever
but          I cannot               I'm just a victim of habit
I cannot      change myself;         what I want is
change myself;     I want       what I need

Its all it can ever be

We dream,
We dream because,
We dream because there's hope in dreams.