I used to dream my life away
Dreamt the the stars would show the way
A path that promises a better day
Than the one I dreamt up yesterday

I used to see you in my dreams
Holding hands like they were seams
Like we were one and ones to be
But nothing was quite like I foresee

You never dreamt the life I saw
I couldn't hold you like I did before
When troubles came conclusions draw
They couldn't hold, no restore

You not only broke my beating heart
You broke my soul my endless start
You broke the good I used to see
You broke the spirit that used to be me

Slowly was our ultimate death
A rounded mind brings journey's end
Not only did you **** my dreams
You killed a boy that loved his dreams

He wasn't a loner.
He was just a wanderer in search for a place where he could find peace.
His imagination was too vivid and wild. His mind was like a sphinx, impossible to decode.
His thoughts were a tangled mess of knots.
He was a mystery.
He was never able to seek peace but he found something intriguing. He met her.
Just like him - Wandering like a gypsy, with chaos occupying her mind.
She was like the missing piece from his jigsaw puzzle of a life.
Together they dreamt about all the magical infinities they longed for all their lives.

lay your head, my darling.
sink deep into the down fillings
and listen to the moments pacing by.
as they slow to match your steady heart rate, you shall become
one with the clouds.
trickles of dreams will welcome you into your subconscious -
where reality may fall to pieces and the worries of the day
will perish.
sprout wings, sweet dreamer.
soar to the furthest corners of your imagination.
find peace.
swim with the stars and collect all of your wishes. count the red ones and the blue ones and the yellow ones and the green ones, for I have sent prayers to each one in hopes for your sweet return.

in a dimly lit computer shop*.  

Hacker?
*no. ****** of infidel inboxes.

Wow. Computer genius
lucid dreamer, green-horn.

Mystic?
poet.

A lover then?
no. just a hacker of heart,
a  forsaken grass.

I had a dream about someone last night.
About being wrapped up
In tree trunk arms
That we're not encased in bark
But rather some warm,
Soft skin
That would graze up against my cheek.
I dreamed of how their rose petal lips
Would search for my face in the dark,
And how their words would end up resonating in my head,
Like when you howl into the black of a cave
And it screams back to you.
"I love you."
"I love you."
"I love you."
But I also dreamed about
My journals burning.
My thoughts,
Sketches,
And lists.
All crumbled,
Spread into ashes
And then gone with the wind.
I dreamed of
Leaping ten feet into the air
And coming down so fast and hard
That I broke every bone in my body
And they couldn't put me back together again.
Now,
I'm sure you can say that the last two dreams mentioned
Weren't dreams,
But rather
Nightmares.
But what about the first one?
Knowing that it will never happen?

sometime i suppose
God created the horizon line at the end of the world
and He made it so that
we were unable to see past it

but what He did not know
was that we are dreamers, us poets
we saw the horizon line and chased after it;
when we got tired, we sat down and
dreamt of life beyond the horizon
and we put it to words,
music to our tongues and
sweet love to our world

The world works,
not the way you live.
And it always hurts,
you work not what you love.

I once have a simple dream,
to be GREAT.
But people are what they seem
the hardest to defeat.

There was a poet that people would find old
Boring and Stupid...then along came some up
And running smooth poet with all the sharp skills,
Namely-anyone but me. The finest poem by quill.

There was once a poem that people used to love,
But then it got old so they dreamed of a better poem,
One that everyone could find popular and entertaining,
Because the past-due poet was just old news, it was known.

But none could escape the perfection of the brand new poet,
Their poems were so great and it took only a few lines,
He'd have blown your mind and you wouldn't even know it,
The old fashioned poet, this hamlet, this macbeth, just wines.

She was the poet, her hands stained with ink
He was the soldier, his hands stained with blood

The gentle hands of a dreamer intertwined with the rough hands of a fighter.