He dreams, he dreams
Of creating
Every night,
Yet he wakes up
In the desert
Every morning.
He dreams of putting
Soft impressions,
Wild emotions,
Beautiful concoctions
Into paper;
Yet he wakes up
Hands tied,
Pitch-black,
Every morning.
He dreams of his heart
Sifting through his chest
Into blank pieces of paper
That get flooded in deep red;
And a heartfelt tune
Comes gushing out his soul,
Making his own guts grow giddy
While he paints trees on the road;
Yet he wakes up
Lips heavy,
Sight blurry,
Heart wary,
Every morning.
He dreams of walking down
The river bank,
Shapes and colours flying past,
While a haunted boat
Projects its mast;
Blue and yellow sensations
Make him tread through his vibrations
While he scribbles something down,
Eyes and ears fixed on the ground;
Yet he wakes up
Full of doubt,
Full of circular
Pointless thoughts,
Full of resistance
And nobody's assistance
Every
*******
Morning.
