They say I’m losing touch on what’s important:
School, study, a job.
So I can pay back dad and mom.
They say I’m not realistic enough,
because the world is tough
and if I don’t do it right, I’m a stuff-up.
Who needs dreams when you have a Lamborghini, right?
All the money in the world, for sleepless nights.
The picture perfect spouse, for a thousand fights.
Fancy clothes and a house, for an internal plight.
Working yourself to death until your cheeks go white.
Losing focus on your dreams until you go blind.
Letting society consume you until you lose your life.
Your life is a nightmare, but you’re not dreaming.
A heart designed to carry joy, instead is seething.
You can’t hear anything except your screaming.
You check your heart but it’s not beating.
You’re not living; you’re only breathing.
Stop.
I’m not chasing paychecks:
I’m chasing foreign sunsets.
I long for antiques and books and eccentric notions.
I desire creative people with intense emotions.
I want colour; I want paint.
I want dancing in the rain.
I want to feel foreign waters’ cool touch.
I want to visit places with nothing and yet, much.
Take me to places I’ve never seen.
Cue the saxophone in New Orleans.
You may see the world in black, white and grey.
I see it in a colourful array.
They think I’m crazy because of the things I dream.
They think life is harder than it seems.
The can’t understand me.
But they’ll die in the dark,
regretting what they should have done.
While I’ll drown in a sea of flowers,
under the kaleidoscopic sun.
