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Uhh Who Feb 2013
A daydream
Forgotten instantly
Almost
Small remnants left behind
A daydream
Where our best ideas are crafted
When exhaustion takes over
When second guessing yourself is so tiring you dont even bother
A daydream
Where time skips at random intervals
Destination: anywhere but here
A daydream
Where am I again?
I don't want to wake up
I'm happy here
In a daydream
12/30/12
Charles Sturies Aug 2017
I daydream that the
recruiters go out of their way
not to promise dates and even
marriage with **** Nordic blond
beautiful co-eds for the players.
I daydream that they the recruiter bring
in local so-called cool jet set
types to add spice to the recruiting
process.
I daydream that the recruiters
take notice of whether the local
layout of the campus is ideal for the players
and that they show 'em around
the campus and in the city or town (including
"campus town") of the respective schools.
I daydream that they definitely
don't promise under the table money
and everything is on the up and up.
I daydream that they
emphasize the liberal arts programs
of the respective colleges
and suggest to the players that the
combination of a good liberal arts education
and skills learned in sports could lead to a good position later on.
I daydream that they emphasize
the building up of what I call
the two key faces of college football
and basketball programs - depth
and balance of the players.
I daydream that they emphasize
that the players obey conduct rules.
I daydream that they emphasize
the well-roundedness of their
respective programs.
Charles Sturies
Styles Jul 2017
Wish I could stop time or make it last longer
Feeling on your vibes, emotions getting stronger
The longer I ponder, the more I grow fonder
I can't be around you
There ain't no telling what i might do
I don't know if you can take it
It's too big, I might break it
Little waist tight dress
I can’t take it
Your body shakin
eyes looking at me
like your for my taking
our bodies groove
In our grooves
This kinda love is for the makin
Dancing like we two halves of one making
The moment sacred
Reading your body language
picturing you naked
screamin my name like its your favorite
I make your body do things
So your soul can savor it
Makin love until your ears ring
to our vibe vibrating as we do our thing
you cumin first until it’s past tense
Got a few things on my mind
Baby you are a hottie
Out of everybody
I want your body
Jen Apr 2014
Her eyes are filled with wonder
hearts a floating fire
her mind has cracked with thunder
thoughts are running wild
caught up in a daydream
she hates the way the days seem
to come and go
with no control
of how or who or what to do
or where to go or who to be
mad as hell, society
crazy
lazy
hazy
lay back down,
daydream.
Madison Jul 2013
There comes a day in your life where you meet someone special…
You try so hard not to admit it but you just can’t hold back the way you feel…
I like you.
You get all those feelings…
Those butterflies you can’t stomach,
That heart rate you can’t put at ease,
So baby …
Sweetheart with the beautiful smile. Sure, I loved sleep
But dreams couldn't compare
Not to talking to you until my mind screamed for rest
And the butterflies in my stomach settled
Darling with the endless amount of love…
your love could fill the oceans and climb the tallest trees,
but could your love belong to me someday?
Be given to me?
Can you feel the way I do for you?
& Boy, sometimes I tangle my own fingers
Closing my eyes, losing myself in a daydream
Where your voice is more than an echo in my mind
And I even believe for a few seconds you're still here
Lover, who writes me poems,
You should know I write you too.
I write about you until my fingers ache
And still after that I keep writing
Because there's just some people you could write about forever
And baby, you're one of them.
And boy who played me a song,
Sweet sounds bow down to my ears,
And the way you play your guitar…
& the way I daydream about kissing your lips...
I can’t wait until the sparks of your tongue burn my mouth
send electric shocks through my body
Cutie… with the funny jokes,
You make me laugh.
Today you made me laugh,
like you always do,
you’re the only one who can now a days.
Baby, with those sparkling eyes,
Your eyes haunt me whether I'm dreaming or not
And what haunts me more is the fact that
I can’t have you now
because you ruined it
It hurts to think about it,
So I have to block you out.
Play your songs to someone else,
Read your silly lines of heartache to someone else,
And go find… someone else.
Jess Petra Jul 2013
I’m having a daydream relapse of colors that don’t exist,
inter-dimensional crushes and sleeping with Picasso.

I’m having a daydream relapse of bankrupting the king,
champagne showers and headless beauty queens.

I’m having a daydream relapse of running out of love spells,
made up anniversaries and Egyptians that don’t look like Cleopatra.

I’m having a daydream relapse of laying naked with vintage villains
and stirring flakes of gold into my melanin.

I'm having a daydream relapse of running through the streets at night
and feeling pity for people not living like us.
Krezeyyyy Aug 2014
I don't want to daydream of you.

~~
They take me farther from the reality of you until I reach a point where you become like a fictional character rather than a someone I've had sweet memories with.
~~

Oh, daydream just doesn't do you justice, love.

~~ Criss ∞
I don't want you within my thoughts, I want you beside me. That's all.
Styles Mar 2017
I want to take your attention
and send in a direction
that takes you away
and changes you mindset
for the rest of the day

the thoughts alone
leaving you in disarray
getting you hot
your ***** simmer
the longer the thoughts saute

looking at the clock
as the seconds slowly tick away
imagining my fingers
as they slowly strip away
the folds of your clothes
right down to your lingerie
slowly I impose, as I take the long way

watching you implode, got me thinking you want to play
fingers linger up your thighs as they park valet
triggers trigger your insides, and your body will obey
these thoughts I portray, in a portrait way
got your body speaking languages, how ever they may convey
I read every single word elaborately;  until you are my favorite essay
i had a little daydream just the other day
my mind began to drift to a land so far away
there were little lovebirds flying all around
quiet and so peaceful you couldnt hear a sound
it was just like heaven in the sky above
such a lovely place filled with so much love
everyone was happy in this land so gay
this little daydream land so very far away
Shea Eugene Dec 2012
in my revenge daydream
You write an essay to the teacher about how wrong it is to be wrong and how doubly wrong it is to wrong someone like me and for your third point you challenge Buddha to be more enlightened than you are since you learned you were wrong

in my revenge daydream
You have crumpled to your knees on the far edge of the field you were fleeing across to be free of the look in my eyes - there is grass in your hair and a growing pool of mud beneath your eyes

in my revenge daydream
I had a fist cocked and a boot in tow just so I could hurt you and oh how I wanted to until a far away scream caused us both to be the same
Poetry Jun 2015
I cant seem to focus lately
My minds always somewhere else
Caught in a daydream

Because i guess ignorance is more appealing to me than dealing with the day to day struggles
Ruthie Dec 2014
The fact that you're not a daydream anymore terrifies me.
At least I had control in my own head...
Lyn Dec 2014
He was the walking catastrophe
I was the quiescent calamity

People said we were each other's worst nightmare
I said we are each other's *sweetest daydream
rain May 2015
"Limousine Eyelash
Oh, baby with your pretty face
Drop a tear in my wineglass
Look at those big eyes
See what you mean to me
Sweet cakes and milkshakes
I am a delusion angel
I am a fantasy parade
I want you to know what I think
Don’t want you to guess anymore
You have no idea where I came from
We have no idea where we’re going
Lodged in life
Like two branches in a river
Flowing downstream
Caught in the current
I’ll carry you, you’ll carry me
That’s how it could be
Don’t you know me?
Don’t you know me by now?"

                                                          ­                     - From 'Before Sunrise'
This poem from the movie 'Before Sunrise'- I can never get enough of this perfection.
As abstract as it is, it holds all the more meaning and depth to it.

I just feel that it is worth sharing, hence.
Makayla Jane Oct 2018
I always daydream about dying,
That one day I'll die in some bad way.
I yearn for death,
All because I'm tired of living.

Part of me thinking it'd be some heartbreaking movie
Or a depressing book that messes with your mind
Where nobody cares,
Nobody comes to see me in the hospital,
And nobody tries to save me;

Part of me thinking it'd be some heartbreaking movie
Or a depressing book that messes with your mind
Where people care,
People do come to see me in the hospital,
And people do try to save me...

I daydream I'll die from cancer,
That one day I'll be told I have stage 3 or 4 something.
Cancer runs in my family.
So, it's messed up but I often find myself pleading that I'll finally be diagnosed with it.
All because I want everything to end...

I daydream I'll die from a school shooter,
That one day someone walks in with a gun and I'm the only one or one of the kids that dies.
We've had threats at our school a few years ago.
I wanted to go to school for that fairly good chance that something happened.
All because I want everything to end...

I daydream I'll die from a tragic car accident,
That one day the car crashes and I'm the only one who dies or is seriously injured.
I was in a car accident about 3 months ago.
If that man hit us 2 seconds later then he would've flipped the car,
And I didn't have my seatbelt on.
I would've been dead or in critical condition as my mother told me along with the officer who thought I had it on.
I never wear my seatbelt for that reason,
All because I want everything to end...

I daydream I'll die from a murderer or robber,
That one day I'll come home and be the first one to arrive just like usual and someone else whose identity is unknown.
Our trailer was broken into a few years ago.
Oh, how I wished whoever was there was still hiding somewhere,
I searched in my closet and under my bed hopeful I'd find someone and when I did they'd **** me.
All because I want everything to end...

I always daydream about dying,
That one day I'll die in some bad way.
I yearn for death,
All because I'm tired of living...
I know the format and punctuation is a bit messed up but what can I say? I'm not the best poet in history and I'm human, I make mistakes.
Christian Ek Jun 2014
Disappointment is thrown strongly at my direction.
Blame gathers in large quantities like a pest infestation.
"It's your fault" and words like "You always make mistakes" evoke anger.
Anger which I want to take out on myself and take out on others.
I can excel in my work of choice, I know I'm more than average.
The bad gets pointed out more and little praise is given for the good.
Stunned by unmoving words. I'm like a prisoner sentenced to jail, released and expected to do worse.
Destruction emerges from my enraged emotions, i wish your words could offer a solution.
I want to be an alchemist and turn things into gold.
It's ironic how I am a creator of words but cant create better words in my critics.
Conversations lead to arguments because i want to be heard.
I'm sick of revolving doors, sick of being slammed by your atrocious comments.
"You have no common sense" you say to me, maybe I just prefer to be in a daydream, my mind drifting away because life is too dull.
Realize that what you say has an effect and that effect can drive somebody or stop them in motion.
Helena Jan 2019
There's gotta be something more than this.
For the past few days I catch myself whispering this
A daydream
You're next to me
Your smile still looks the same
You smile only when your genuinely happy
I know its real
I've always loved that about you
Your hands lay in my lap
Our legs against each other
I look at you
There's gotta be something more than this
I tell you how there must be
I squeeze your hand tight
Knowing that I would have to hold it tight if I wanted to keep it
We stare out into the ocean until the daydream becomes faint
A daydream
The one that enters my mind when I'm alone
I whisper
There's gotta be something more than this
but you see there isn't
My name only comes to your mind when your phone screen reads my text
Your smile is just a moment
It came, it went
And perhaps this daydream is just the thing I wish I would have told you when I felt us drift
Almost 2 years ago now
I don't know if that makes me crazy
Obsessive
Tender hearted
Or just someone that really, truly loved you
After all this time I can't ******* believe it's still you
There's gotta be something more than this.
I feel crazy for writing this after so many years but this daydream keeps popping up lately and I thought maybe writing it will help getting it out of my head. I know it's a little cheesy.
Josie Oct 2016
Will it be latte, espresso, or tea
Daydream coffee drinker, that would be me
Nat King Cole on the audio
Singing about things I already know
People watch
Coffee cup lipstick blotch
Pours the cream to cool the steam
Fearing what the future will bring
I may be living on a shoesting
In a coffeehouse daydream
Things are better than what they may seem
rebecca suzanne Jan 2015
We never took pictures together
because you don't like how big your eyes are
I would drown in them for you
but you would be too busy
watching the sunrise to notice.
You have glasses because you're blind
But they aren't the right prescription
because you still don't see your beauty.

I remember the night you had me drive
two hours away from the city lights
just so you could point out
all the constellations you memorized
when you were younger.
I let you go on and on about stars,
waiting for you to mention the way
you outshine all of them
But you kissed me instead
and I think that was even better.

Even when Summer faded out,
you would always smell like sunshine.
I wanted to live forever in the daydream
of you and me walking along the shoreline.
Your laughter was synonymous
with sunflowers
and how everytime you caught sight of them
you couldn't stop yourself from smiling.

But that should have been my warning sign
because Russia's official flower is the Sunflower
and ever since you left
I've traded water for *****
and this winter has been unusually rainy
but it's still too bright for me to go outside.
As the crystal-clear freshwater
trickles steadily off the glazy rocks,

The sound replenishes my soul
with vitality - on my heart,
serenity, it knocks.

As the dying rusty leaves
float along
the heavenly stream,

My peace-filled mind
goes off into
a beautiful, sweet daydream.

I ponder over recollections
of all the precious magical moments
that together
we have both shared
over the years,

All of the memories we have made -
all of the beautiful words he spoke,
they were all remedies,
conquering all of my fears.

The struggles and the challenges,
together, we took them all on,

Hope, love and faith
were the tools we both used,
hand-in-hand, to rid them
and have them all vanish and be
forever gone.

As the birds flutter in the branches
of the giant trees above my head,

In my mind,
like a delicate melody,
I hear all of the beautiful words
he has said to me
over the course of our lives together,
as far back as the day we met -
before we wed.

Like the crystal-clear freshwater
rushing down the heavenly stream,

All of the amazing moments
and the not forgotten good times
flood my beautiful sweet daydream.

And once again,
revitalized by the serenity
of the heavenly peaceful creek,
the incredible amount of love
I feel for him increases
once more,

My undying love
is born again,
I am to be in love
with my beautiful man
infinitely - forevermore.

By Lady R.F ©2017
Vanessa Dec 2014
The images I see
Are nothing more than daydreams,
that keep replaying.
Sweet melodies reciting words that will never be said.
Madeline Aug 2018
his eyes aren’t merely blue
they’re a concoction of
star dust and sun drops
they’re teal with specks of gold
and splashes of silver
they’re mesmeric

they aren’t merely blue
they’re turquoise
with twirls of enticement
if you look closely, my love
they’re a dancing ocean
with hints of sapphire and hope

they aren’t merely blue
they’re hypnotic
they’re my daydream
Jacqueline Anne Apr 2015
Alice was a hippy girl
whimsical and free spirited
in dalliance with imagination.
Living in a trippy world
and a psychedelic dream.
Where life was fluffy and free
from the restraints of responsibility.
Her thoughts drifting
always questioning.
Far out man.

Always in her daydream bubble
partying for peace and love,
keeping her soul out of trouble.
In nonsense rhyme
and hallucinogenic vibe,
creating her own escape.
And all the while her rabbit
with an anxiety problem,
would tell her he was
going to be late.

She nibbled on cakes
that she laced,
with her boyfriend
and together they embraced
their Wonderland.
Grinning like Cheshire cats
hand in hand spiralling,
out of control
down rabbit holes.
Far out man.

Always in her daydream bubble
partying for peace and love,
keeping her soul out of trouble
in nonsense rhyme
and hallucinogenic vibe
creating her own escape
And all the while her rabbit
with an anxiety problem
would tell her he was
going to be late.

Spending their days in wonder
in unknown potions drunk
they would ponder
the meaning of life,
in playing cards talking
with ***** smoking
caterpillars and
mocking turtles on a beach.
Reality so far out of reach.
Far out man.

Always in her daydream bubble
partying for peace and love,
keeping her soul out of trouble
in nonsense rhyme
and hallucinogenic vibe
creating her own escape
And all the while her rabbit
with an anxiety problem
would tell her he was
going to be late.

Alice was a hippy girl
whimsical and free spirited.
Wishing for a different world,
escaping in kaleidoscopes.
Mind blowing and free.
The truth smashed down
her house of cards in responsibility,
and she had a date with reality
in actuality reality eventually
Growing up man.

Always in her daydream bubble
partying for peace and love,
keeping her soul out of trouble
in nonsense rhyme
and hallucinogenic vibe
creating her own escape
And all the while her rabbit
with an anxiety problem
would tell her he was
going to be late.

He was going to be late.
He was going to be late.



©Jacqui Slade
Jesse stillwater Aug 2018
Driving up mountain miles
of washboard switchbacks;
jarring the dusty rearview mirror
in my mind:

"but don't look back in anger"  
... I heard you say
stuck in the cloud of dust
befogging my daydream
back somewhere thereabouts
the washed out bridge
that tore us apart
like a flash flood

It was so long ago
since you were running
and I was hiding in plain sight,
from what the storm
in my eyes did tell

Mindful — you were only watching
the growing distance gather;

finding what you didn't lose
looking back to see
   what you can't forget —

like a hesitant child
reluctantly wondering
if anyone was still looking back
at you ―  still running away
from each passing storm


Jesse Stillwater
June   2018
Thank you for reading my soul scribbles
On a sunny brae alone I lay
One summer afternoon;
It was the marriage-time of May,
With her young lover, June.

From her mother's heart seemed loath to part
That queen of bridal charms,
But her father smiled on the fairest child
He ever held in his arms.

The trees did wave their plumy crests,
The glad birds carolled clear;
And I, of all the wedding guests,
Was only sullen there!

There was not one, but wished to shun
My aspect void of cheer;
The very gray rocks, looking on,
Asked, "What do you here?"

And I could utter no reply;
In sooth, I did not know
Why I had brought a clouded eye
To greet the general glow.

So, resting on a heathy bank,
I took my heart to me;
And we together sadly sank
Into a reverie.

We thought, "When winter comes again,
Where will these bright things be?
All vanished, like a vision vain,
An unreal mockery!

"The birds that now so blithely sing,
Through deserts, frozen dry,
Poor spectres of the perished spring,
In famished troops will fly.

"And why should we be glad at all?
The leaf is hardly green,
Before a token of its fall
Is on the surface seen!"

Now, whether it were really so,
I never could be sure;
But as in fit of peevish woe,
I stretched me on the moor,

A thousand thousand gleaming fires
Seemed kindling in the air;
A thousand thousand silvery lyres
Resounded far and near:

Methought, the very breath I breathed
Was full of sparks divine,
And all my heather-couch was wreathed
By that celestial shine!

And, while the wide earth echoing rung
To that strange minstrelsy
The little glittering spirits sung,
Or seemed to sing, to me:

"O mortal! mortal! let them die;
Let time and tears destroy,
That we may overflow the sky
With universal joy!

"Let grief distract the sufferer's breast,
And night obscure his way;
They hasten him to endless rest,
And everlasting day.

"To thee the world is like a tomb,
A desert's naked shore;
To us, in unimagined bloom,
It brightens more and more!

"And, could we lift the veil, and give
One brief glimpse to thine eye,
Thou wouldst rejoice for those that live,
BECAUSE they live to die."

The music ceased; the noonday dream,
Like dream of night, withdrew;
But Fancy, still, will sometimes deem
Her fond creation true.



Published in the 1846 collection Poems By Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell under Emily's nom de plume 'Ellis Bell'.
Asiah Mangham Aug 2019
Daydreaming gives me joy, peace from the madness surrounding us.
I’d like to think there was hope.
Maybe there was joy in the way our world worked.
I daydream about the worst and that’s why it pains me to find joy in it.
I daydream I’m not chasing a dying age.
I daydream that maybe someday the words I tend to give you with this mind that often drifts gives you joy too.
I daydream I won’t be the only one daydreaming anymore.
And maybe. Maybe the world won’t seem so complex to a steady mind.
Would you tell me your daydreams?
L B Sep 2018
Somewhere between a bicycle
and a seat at a daydream...

I had to make money
so I mortgaged
my woods, my sea, my music
Words--
left
Regaled only with rust
my 1938 Columbia
bike
(sold for a crib)
to an antique dealer

Fat-tires, red-faded fenders
Baskets saddled on wheel
for towel and lunch
Key chain dangling
jingling against jar
of cool ginger ale

Look back at the baskets-filled
afternoons at the park
I was a poet
The road
laid itself bare
For my bike
and I
scrolling through leaves
like words that fell
like hair across shoulders
that I sang to no one

the audience--  
air
I know that now
I was not really…
nor ready

I once was a poet
_

This poem was based on a black and white photo of Harry Bertschmann as a young artist,
posed proudly by his magnificent work.  First two lines of my poem were my immediate reaction to his painting.

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/05/nyregion/the-struggling-artist-at-86.html
Lauren Hupp May 2014
Daydream,
I don’t care when
And I don’t really care
Why.
Just do it.
Although,
At times
It may seem like
It’s just a waste of time
That it just gets
Your hopes up.
What else are you supposed to do?
Think of nightmares?
The things that make you,
Cringe,
Curl up,
And cry?
I know, I know
Its just a day dream,
It will probably
Never
Ever
Happen,
But that’s a dream.
They’re supposed to be there.
For you.
When nothing
And no one is.
They protect,
Your hope.
And I know,
Nightmares
Are easier,
To believe in,
They seem
Real.
But day dream,
You’ll be happier.
For a while.
Bouazizi’s heavy eyelids parted as the Muezzin recited the final call for the first Adhan of the day.

“As-salatu Khayrun Minan-nawm”
Prayer is better than sleep

Rising from the torment of another restless night, Bouazizi wiped the sleep from his droopy eyes as his feet touched the cold stone floor.

Throughout the frigid night, the devilish jinn did their work, eagerly jabbing away at Bouazizi with pointed sticks, tormenting his troubled conscience with the worry of his nagging indebtedness. All night the face of the man Bouazizi owed money to haunted him. Bouazizi could see the man’s greasy lips and brown teeth jawing away, inches from his face. He imagined chubby caffeine stained fingers reaching toward him to grab some dinars from Bouazizi’s money box.

Bouazizi turned all night like he was sleeping on a board of spikes. His prayers for a restful night again went unanswered. The pall of a blue fatigue would shadow Bouazizi for most of the day.

Bouazizi’s weariness was compounded by a gnawing hunger. By force of habit, he grudgingly opened the food cupboard with the foreknowledge that it was almost bare. Bouazizi’s premonition proved correct as he surveyed a meager handful of chickpeas, some eggs and a few sparse loaves. It was just enough to feed his dependant family; younger brothers and sisters, cousins and a terminally disabled uncle. That left nothing for Bouazizi but a quick jab to his empty gut. He would start this day without breakfast.

Bouazizi made a living as a street vendor. He hustles to survive. Bouazizi’s father died in a construction accident in Libya when he was three. Since the age of 10, Bouazizi had pushed a cart through the streets of Sidi Bouzid; selling fruit at the public market just a few blocks from the home that he has lived in for almost his entire life.

At 27 years of age, Bouazizi has wrestled the beast of deprivation since his birth. To date, he has bravely fought it to a standstill; but day after day the multi-headed hydra of life has snapped at him. He has squarely met the eyes of the beast with fortitude and resolve; but the sharp fangs of a hardscrabble life has sunken deep into Bouazizi’s spleen. The unjust rules of society are powerful claws that slash away at his flesh, bleeding him dry: while the spiked tendrils of poverty wrap Bouazizi’s neck, seeking to strangle him.

Bouazizi is a workingman hero; a skilled warrior in the fight for daily bread. He is accustomed to living a life of scarcity. His daily deliverance is the grace of another day of labor and the blessed wages of subsistence.

Though Allah has blessed this man with fortitude the acuteness of terminal want and the constant struggle to survive has its limits for any man; even for strong champions like Bouazizi.

This morning as Bouazizi washed he peered into a mirror, closely examining new wrinkles on his stubble strewn face. He fingered his deep black curls dashed with growing streaks of gray. He studied them through the gaze of heavy bloodshot eyes. He looked upward as if to implore Allah to salve the bruises of daily life.

Bouazizi braced himself with the splash of a cold water slap to his face. He wiped his cheeks clean with the tail of his shirt. He dipped his toothbrush into a box of baking powder and scoured an aching back molar in need of a root canal. Bouazizi should see a dentist but it is a luxury he cannot afford so he packed an aspirin on top of the infected tooth. The dissolving aspirin invaded his mouth coating his tongue with a bitter effervescence.

Bouazizi liked the taste and was grateful for the expectation of a dulled pain. He smiled into the mirror to check his chipped front tooth while pinching a cigarette **** from an ashtray. The roach had one hit left in it. He lit it with a long hard drag that consumed a good part of the filter. Bouazizi’s first smoke of the day was more filter then tobacco but it shocked his lungs into the coughing flow of another day.

Bouazizi put on his jacket, slipped into his knockoff NB sneakers and reached for a green apple on a nearby table. He took a big bite and began to chew away the pain of his toothache.

Bouazizi stepped into the street to catch the sun rising over the rooftops. He believed that seeing the sunrise was a good omen that augured well for that day’s business. A sunbeam braking over a far distant wall bathed Bouazizi in a golden light and illumined the alley where he parked his cart holding his remaining stock of week old apples. He lifted the handles and backed his cart out into the street being extra mindful of the cracks in the cobblestone road. Bouazizi sprained his ankle a week ago and it was still tender. Bouazizi had to be careful not to aggravate it with a careless step. Having successfully navigated his cart into the road, Bouazizi made a skillful U Turn and headed up the street limping toward the market.

A winter chill gripped Bouazizi prompting him to zip his jacket up to his neck. The zipper pinched his Adam’s Apple and a few droplets of blood stained his green corduroy jacket. Though it was cold, Bouazizi sensed that spring would arrive early this year triggering a replay of a recurring daydream. Bouazizi imagined himself behind the wheel of a new van on his way to the market. Fresh air and sunshine pouring through the open windows with the cargo space overflowing with fresh vegetables and fruits.

It was a lifelong ambition of Bouazizi to own a van. He dreamed of buying a six cylinder Dodge Caravan. It would be painted red and he would call it The Red Flame. The Red Flame would be fast and powerful and sport chrome spinners. The Red Flame would be filled with music from a Blaupunkt sound system with kick *** speakers. Power windows, air conditioning, leather seats, a moonroof and plenty of space in the back for his produce would complete Bouazizi’s ride.

The Red Flame would be the vehicle Bouazizi required to expand his business beyond the market square. Bouazizi would sell his produce out of the back of the van, moving from neighborhood to neighborhood. No longer would he have to wait for customers to come to his stand in the market. Bouazizi would go to his customers. Bouazizi and the Red Flame would be known in all the neighborhoods throughout the district. Bouazizi shook his head and smiled thinking about all the girls who would like to take rides in the Red Flame. Bouazizi and his Red Flame would be a sight to be noticed and a force to be reckoned with.

“EEEEEYOWWW” a Mercedes horn angrily honked; jarring Bouazizi from the reverie of his daydream. A guy whipping around the corner like a silver streak stuck his head out the window blasting with music yelling, “Hey Mnayek, watch where you push that *******.”

The music faded as the Mercedes roared away. “Barra nikk okhtek” Bouazizi yelled, raising his ******* in the direction of the vanished car. “The big guys in the fancy cars think the road belongs to them”, Bouazizi mumbled to himself.

The insult ****** Bouazizi off, but he was accustomed to them and as he limped along pushing his cart he distracted himself with the amusement of the ascending sun chasing the fleeting shadows of the night, sending them scurrying down narrow alleyways.

Bouazizi imaged himself a character from his favorite movie. He was a giant Transformer, chasing the black shadows of evil away from the city into the desert. After battling evil and conquering the bad guys, he would transform himself back into the regular Bouazizi; selling his produce to the people as he patrolled the highways of Tunisia in the Red Flame, the music blasting out the windows, the chrome spinners flashing in the sunlight. Bouazizi would remain vigilant, always ready to transform the Red Flame to fight the evil doers.

The bumps and potholes in the road jostled Bouazizi’s load of apples. A few fell out of the wooden baskets and were rolling around in the open spaces of the cart. Bouazizi didn’t want to risk bruising them. Damaged merchandise can’t be sold so he was careful to secure his goods and arrange his cart to appeal to women customers. He made sure to display his prized electronic scale in the corner of the cart for all to see.

Bouazizi had a reputation as a fair and generous dealer who always gave good value to his customers. Bouazizi was also known for his kindness. He would give apples to hungry children and families who could not pay. Bouazizi knew the pain of hunger and it brought him great satisfaction to be able to alleviate it in others.

As a man who valued fairness, Bouazizi was particularly proud of his electronic scale. Bouazizi was certain the new measuring device assured all customers that Bouazizi sold just and correct portions. The electronic scale was Bouazizi’s shining lamp. He trusted it. He hung it from the corner post of his cart like it was the beacon of a lighthouse guiding shoppers through the treachery of an unscrupulous market. It would attract all customers who valued fairness to the safe harbor of Bouazizi’s cart.

The electronic scale is Bouazizi’s assurance to his customers that the weights and measures of electronic calculation layed beyond any cloud of doubt. It is a fair, impartial and objective arbiter for any dispute.

Bouazizi believed that the fairness of his scale would distinguish his stand from other produce vendors. Though its purchase put Bouazizi into deep debt, the scale was a source of pride for Bouazizi who believed that it would help his profits to increase and help him to achieve his goal of buying the Red Flame.

As Bouazizi pushed his cart toward the market, he mulled his plan over in his mind for the millionth time. He wasn't great in math but he was able to calculate his financial situation with a degree of precision. His estimations triggered worries that his growing debt to money lenders may be difficult to payoff.

Indebtedness pressed down on Bouazizi’s chest like a mounting pile of stones. It was the source of an ever present fear coercing Bouazizi to live in a constant state of anxiety. His business needed to grow for Bouazizi to get a measure of relief and ultimately prosper from all his hard work. Bouazizi was driven by urgency.

The morning roil of the street was coming alive. Bouazizi quickened his step to secure a good location for his cart at the market. Car horns, the spewing diesel from clunking trucks, the flatulent roar of accelerating buses mixed with the laughs and shrieks of children heading to school composed the rising crescendo of the city square.

As he pushed through the market, Bouazizi inhaled the aromatic eddies of roasting coffee floating on the air. It was a pleasantry Bouazizi looked forward to each morning. The delicious wafts of coffee mingling with the crisp aroma of baking bread instigated a growl from Bouazizi’s empty stomach. He needed to get something to eat. After he got money from his first sale he would by a coffee and some fried dough.

Activity in the market was vigorous, punctuated by the usual arguments of petty territorial disputes between vendors. The disagreements were always amicably resolved, burned away in rising billows of roasting meats and vegetables, the exchange of cigarettes and the plumes of tobacco smoke rising as emanations of peace.

Bouazizi skillfully maneuvered his cart through the market commotion. He slid into his usual space between Aaban and Aameen. His good friend Aaban sold candles, incense, oils and sometimes his wife would make cakes to sell. Aameen was the markets most notorious jokester. He sold hardware and just about anything else he could get his hands on.

Aaban was already burning a few sticks of jasmine incense. It helped to attract customers. The aroma defined the immediate space with the pleasant bouquet of a spring garden. Bouazizi liked the smell and appreciated the increased traffic it brought to his apple cart.

“Hey Basboosa#, do you have any cigarettes?“, Aameen asked as he pulled out a lighter. Bouazizi shook the tip of a Kent from an almost empty pack. Aameen grabbed the cigarette with his lips.

“That's three cartons of Kents you owe me, you cheap *******.” Bouazizi answered half jokingly. Aameen mumbled a laugh through a grin tightly gripping the **** as he exhaled smoke from his nose like a fire breathing dragon. Bouazizi also took out a cigarette for himself.

“Aameem, give me a light”, Bouazizi asked.

Aameen tossed him the lighter.

“Keep it Basboosa. I got others.” Aameen smiled as he showed off a newly opened box of disposable lighters to sell on his stand.

“Made in China, Basboosa. They make everything cheap and colorful. I can make some money with these.”

Bouazizi lit his next to last cigarette. He inhaled deeply. The smoke chased away the cool air in Bouazizi’s lungs with a shot of a hot nicotine rush.

“Merci Aameen” Bouazizi answered. He put the lighter into the almost empty cigarette pack and put it into his hip pocket. The lighter would protect his last cigarette from being crushed.

The laughter and shouts of the bazaar, the harangue of radio voices shouting anxious verses of Imam’s exhorting the masses to submit and the piecing ramble of nondescript AM music flinging piercing unintelligible static surrounded Bouazizi and his cart as he waited for his first customers of the day.

Bouazizi sensed a nervous commotion rise along the line of vendors. A crowd of tourists and locals milling about parted as if to avoid a slithering asp making its way through their midst. The hoots of vendors and the cackle of the crowd made its way to Bouazizi’s knowing ear. He knew what was coming. It was nothing more then another shakedown by city officials acting as bagmen for petty municipal bureaucrats. They claim to be checking vendor licences but they’re just making the rounds collecting protection money from the vendors. Pocketing bribes and payoffs is the municipal authorities idea of good government. They are skilled at using the power of their office to extort tribute from the working poor.

Bouazizi made the mistake of making eye contact with Madame Hamdi. As the municipal authority in charge of vendors and taxis Madame Hamdi held sway over the lives of the street vendors. She relished the power she had over the men who make a meager living selling goods in the square; and this morning she was moving through the market like a bloodhound hot on the trail of an escaped convict. Two burly henchmen lead the way before her. Bouazizi knew Madame Hamdi’s hounds were coming for him.

Bouazizi knew he was ******. Having just made a payment to his money lender, Bouazizi had no extra dinars to grease the palm of Madame Hamdi. He grabbed the handle bars of his cart to make an escape; but Madame Hamdi cut him off and got right into into Bouazizi’s face.

“Ah little Basboosa where are you going? she asked with the tone of playful contempt.

“I suppose you still have no license to sell, ah Basboosa?” Madame Hamdi questioned with the air of a soulless inquisitor.

“You know Madame Hamdi, cart vendors do not need a license.” Bouazizi feebly protested, not daring to look into her eyes.

“Basboosa, you know we can overlook your violations with a small fine for your laxity” a dismissive Madame Hamdi offered.

Bouazizi’s sense of guilt would not permit him to lift his eyes. His head remained bowed. Bouazizi stood convicted of being one of the impoverished.

“I have no spare dinars to offer Madame Hamdi, My pockets are empty, full of holes. My money falls into everyone’s palm but my own. I’m sorry Madame Hamdi. I’ll take my cart home”. He lifted the handlebars in an attempt to escape. One of Madame Hamdi’s henchmen stepped in front of his cart while the other pushed Bouazizi away from it.

“Either you pay me a vendor tax for a license or I will confiscate your goods Basboosa”, Madame Hamdi warned as she lifted Bouazizi’s scale off its hook.

“This will be the first to go”, she said grinning as she examined the scale. “We’ll just keep this.”
Like a mother lion protecting a defenseless cub from the snapping jaws of a pack of ravenous hyenas, Bouazizi lunged to retrieve his prized scale from the clutches of Madame Hamdi. Reaching for it, he touched the scale with his fingertips just as Madame Hamdi delivered a vicious slap to Bouazizi’s cheek. It halted him like a thunderbolt from Zeus.

A henchman overturned Bouazizi’s cart, scatter
Three years ago today Muhammad Bouazizi set himself on fire igniting the Jasmine Revolution in Tunisia sparking the Arab Spring Uprisings of 2011.
RainyWriter Dec 2015
I can live in a solitude,

A lonley life for an empty girl,

I don't want your ompany.

All I need is the power to loose  



I will imagine an imaginary person,

A thousand times better than you,

I promise i will live a fantasy,

That is truer, it is truer than us.



CHORUS

So wave me goodbye,

As I fall fall away  into a daydream

If we can only have one life,

Then that is a paradise,

You will never be, never be.  



An empty man for a hollow friend,

A faded dream for cold reality,

Blood bone, prefer what shouldn't be

I'm gonna run, run away from you and me  



CHORUS

So wave me goodbye,

As I fall fall away  into a daydream

If we can only have one life,

Then that is a paradise,

You will never be, never be.  

So watch me fall away into a daydream.
Cookieman Jun 2015
A deep thought?
Or a rhetorical analogy?
I raise my hand to answer
Realizing that no answer is supposed to come out of me

Cookies and milk
A childhood memory
World War II
A part of history

Ice Cream and Bagels
A random combination
The submarine
A scientific invention

A grumbling stomach
It seems im hungry
I turn to ask for food
Realizing my parents are still yelling at me

What a daydream.
Eisseya Roselle Oct 2018
Ikaw ang iniisip bago pumikit
Kaya pati sa panaginip ika’y sumisilip
Ang hirap palang umibig
Yung di lumilipas ang araw na hindi ka naiisip
Kaya natutulala nalang bigla sa gilid
At iniisip na maging tayo kahit lamang sa panaginip
Michelle E Witek Sep 2013
You're here.
With me.
I'm in your passenger seat.
My lungs take full, deep breaths of summer air.
A breeze tickles my skin, tangles my hair.
Red light.
Your hand finds my jeans, follows their seam.
Our smiles meet, I blink.
It's just another daydream.
Kiernan Norman Oct 2012
I
There is a 3% chance I'll find you here. But if in each pair of eyes I dip, I find 1/8 of you; I'll be there soon.

II
I didn't crawl here; I took a plane. I spent six hours tracing the Atlantic from my window and you rose from the sea, dry and unsalted, twice each nautical mile. I would say it was my imagination, or the California wine, but I wear glasses now and never lie about what I see. It was you. And you and you and you.


III
Stealing is easier here. Maybe it's the crowds or the way the men smile at me like I'm harmless, but my hands move without question. They don't fumble or miss pockets, my heartbeat doesn't even protest. In prayer beads, silkworm cocoons, oils and sea rings, I am in debt to a city who doesn't know it.


IV
I have no ethnicity. Deep in bone coils the apathy and flight of someone's non-heritage. But I am forgiven; in a world of paranoia, brown eyes are always trusted and the way my hair falls reminds them that I'm on their side. Even my name curls within itself, folded flat and dead before it's over. It's better this way; no allegiance, no responsibility.

V
From a curb in district nine, I see your star. It's hanging where you said it would be but I can't see god in it the way you promised.

VI
On the other side of the world you told me about a quad of green. You waxed flowers of every color, the sky I've only ever painted and the people, beautiful and dark, who will save me. I found it. In broken French and broken sandals I found it and the sun was setting and you had just left. So now we both know you won't be the one to save me.

VII
With one foot in the slanting gutter I walk until the city circles and I'm back where I started. In a daydream I found you. I smiled and quoted your book, the part that said 'When we heard the guidance, we believed in it' and you looked at me in a way that scared me. A way that translated your face into thousands of alphabets, ancient and invented. And I knew none of them. Suddenly I'm illiterate to you. Suddenly I'm gone.

VIII
I'm with a man who's made of smoke and each strawberry ring that escapes my lips is dedicated to someone that I’ve laughed with.

IX
With the intensity of archives on fire, I withdraw. You are still a body; a few hundred bones calcified and aging, a mind of words streaming like spider webs, blood you never shed, and  muscles that cross in blinding precision, but you are not who you used to be. You bound to me in a way that's irreversible and now we're both stitching. Awkward and broken we pull at flesh to remove each other. We have scars now, like stickers ripped from wallpaper. The outline of a palm stains my shoulder, a thumb the size of yours in the crook of my elbow. Small, white fingerprints tattoo your neck.


X
I might be free. Over cobble stones with broken sandals I don't trip until I realize that a city where I loved is now part of me. I can get as far away from her as the modern map allows but the red and gold bangles that crowd my wrists are not to be taken off. They're a part of me too. Like blood spilled on a cobble stone, you will walk over us every day of your life.
written January 2008. Seventeen.
Ally Dec 2014
I've been too busy writing my fantasies
that I forgot how to make you my own
in reality.
how?

— The End —