I lay in bed most nights
Hoping
you would hit up my phone and wonder
where I've been
and what I've been up to
But I know you never will
I know you don't really care
or at least that's what my overthinking alter ego tells me everyday
Not the way I do at the very least
Only message when I'm wanted
Taking my help for granted
Only message when you want something
Because what I want means nothing
Right
?
I've always been in your corner
Ready to assist
But when I'm in the ring
I box without a shadow
Memories are the only thing I've got going for me
My only link to reality
My only link to what we once were
Without them I wouldnt make it through most days
And I wish I could say the same for you
But I know you don't feel the same
So I get ready to drift away
The lonely dreamer
Who never really dreams

here's to the glass slipper you refused to wear,
the flower you didn't let them braid in your hair.
they called you princess and gave you a crown,
fed you from silver, threaded silk for a gown.

delicate, precious, frail as a daisy,
"you mustn't do that, you should sit like a lady,"
ordained to be queen but holding much bigger dreams,
they'd come running when you broke at your seams.

suitors so fit, deemed worthy by father
princes so charming, speaking of gardens of flowers.
you delayed your answers, you bought time to yourself
to discover who you were, behind expectant smiles.

How is one here
Presented with endless possibilities to explore
Days and days ahead of them to navigate
Through Earth’s greatest treasures
Yet at the same time they are not here
Instead focusing on the box assumed as habit
Worshipping paper to depend their experience on
Freedom engulfed by invisible barriers, fences
Borders striving to sustain what is unsustainable
And how is one here
Gifted breath from the early beginning  
Decorated with hope and ambition, love and protection
Nurtured in freedom to talk, and move
Yet at the same time they are not here
Placed behind a colorless cell
Imposed on them is a paper which determines them
Who they are, their whole being, wrapped up in the finger of a single sheet
How is one here
Dancing with the assumption of being a free
human
Yet jailed in the arms of a ruthless system

Once upon a time a long time ago in a land where no dreams were ever invoked.
A story teller and the wondrous in his mind was revealed as he finally spoke.
It all started when his face melted into his pillow and his body sunk deeply inside his bed.
He couldn't tell what was real or simply just a fantasy stuck inside his head.
Awakened in a land where anything and everything was possible.
The scenery was breath-taking and undeniable.
The beauty of it's landscape just blew his mind away.
So many profound words yet to describe that he needed to express and say.
He felt his body melting and dissolving and mixing and shifting into All four elements.
Earth into the solid state, water to liquid, air to gaseous and fire to plasma.
Molded and shaped he was Created into his best state, into a beautiful white diamond that never looked any brighter.
He had finally reached the endless points of creation.
Like traveling from every distant constellation.
A star that burned so bright yet a supernova just passing by.
The air was heavy to breathe he felt like his lungs were weak.
Like Inhaling fire yet exhaling desire. Now inspired by the way that his mind is wired.
The gravity was exhilarating and stuck in an unbalanced place.
His body just floated slowly in the midst of the night's air.
The moon light illuminated a fountain of life.
He wasn't too sure if he was ready enough to make a sacrifice.
Drink away or pretend and just lay there and stay.
He took a sip as the cold liquid touched the tip of his lips.
Now at last, Awakened from a bizarre dream. Present, future or past.
Just a beautiful Light that beamed gleamed and screamed in the darkest stream that lasts.

I’d like to propose a toast to the artists
To the visionaries
The ones we’ve long since forgotten
For real dreamers are endangered
A species so minute they replicate that of a speck of dust on an old counter top
Foreign, and rather unwelcome
The last strand of a generation whose favorite question was “why?”

They are contaminated with an incurable plague
Of unsequestered life
Letting the savage nature of the world run its course, without letting in the demons they were destined to succumb to

Like a sailboat bouncing in the cool breeze of twilight
They float above the rest
Knowing their infinite wonder crowns them royal
Their jewels a testament to their unbiased sentiments
Ones only few have the glory of basking in

It is here we see the true treasure
So carefully preserved
Useless to the rest of the world
Yet priceless to the king

For he uses it to free himself from the slavery that binds him to land
More valuable than any glistening rock ever could be

But as we know every Caesar has his Brutus
Such that every singer has their cynic
And every cook has their critic

Which is why we place these dreamers on probation
And lead them to skate on ice so thin the blade cuts straight through the narrow cracks to skim the surface of the daunting water beneath
Leaving a vulnerability the so-called “modern” generation hungers for

Why celebrate passion when we can pity peril?

And so the common fool grabs the microphone, speaks his truth, and lays down a tale even the great Aesop would envy, while being blessed for his experience
When the visionary says his piece he falls on deaf ears, his lack of forebearance leading to his opinions being baseless, rather inconsequential

And so the artist grows numb
Letting the novocaine of society draw away all sense
Leaving the empty husk of what was once a king
Now degraded to a common peasant

“Normalcy” they call it
“A cure” for an outspoken tongue and relentless heart
The vaccination for a cancer that never needed healing
For it drove the very spirit of humanity

“But no!”, we cry,
"His body never belonged to him."
Like the effortless movement of a marionette, he was forever destined to be guided
By the well worked hands of a madman

He dies that way
Bound to his maker
Always knowing he could fly
Never given the opportunity to use his wings

And the ones who come to his funeral are the very people who tightened the noose
Their tears are not of sorrow for him, but merely the exclamation of their own pain
As the beloved puppet leaves their blood-soaked hands

They lay him down peacefully
Lick their lips at the satisfaction of a job well done
And celebrate
The death of the romantic