Because not every dream has been alive,
As we hold them in our chests, in deep cavernous wells, of silence, darkness, intuition and empathy,
And we use the words that drips from these stalactites
On paper as we try to connect or connote some kind of meaning,
With an other type of human being who,
Is as lost as you are.
And whose dreams are held too tightly sometimes that they die out,
Like a flame without air.
And the in the air that is too hotly bound to the oxygen we need too,
Breeds a source of discontent for people.
And we read you,
People whose dreams have died a long time ago in the arms of, of a faltering god;
Whose responsibility you take,
Militant faith where you store an arsenal of weapons to use,
When you know you're good enough,
And when you're ready to protect yourself in the arms of something as,
Clean and crisp as rotten air,
yet there is a, heaven within us,
One that you see and try to take, use, misuse and abuse,
Wrapping tendrils of our beliefs around your fingers and pulling it, out,
Like you are pulling our hair, because being good sometimes means you have to be bad,
To enter paradise.
And your dreams lie within that attraction and it's as vulnerable as a flame.
So, you can never, stop, breath-ing.
And so we give you our breath, and we forget time is living, within us,
And that dreams, are not meaningful, unless you deem them so,
And beliefs turn to ash in our mouths, and our fingers become useless,
As our eyes,
Which are now turned inside out,
Because what is paradise, if hell is as hot as flame,
You're trying to protect?
And so the pursuit never stops, In the endless fashion,
To create something worthwhile out of nothing,
And we become clay in your hands,
And we feel you.
And we hold you,
the people, whose parents were the big bad wolf and the wicked witch,
And the monsters that you came to fear so that you hid under the bed,
And in closets,
and let your words suffocate inside of you,
And we the poets, see you, and feel you,
But, you, you, never ever see the beauty in the mirror, before you,
Created by the magic of a thousand mothers and fathers,
unable to complete the job,
And you in turn become the beast, the pumpkin, and the eternal sleep,
And finding someone to awaken you from your slumber becomes a life long mission,
There is no dream here to die out, we try to enliven you with our own,
We set you on fire in the nighttime,
The time when you believe all, comes alive, and a human touch,
That leads to an ****** or two, is the medicine you need to,
Climb, over, the, top, of, the, cliff and find, a way home;
But touch becomes emptiness, it dries up in our hands.
We are the dirt in your claws, and,
Like some thing has died, it turns to dust between your fingers,
And the more you, try to have us,
The more purple, black and yellow we become,
The smaller we grow,
in the cinders of your dying fire,
And we find beds to hide under, and closets to hide in,
Because dreams are something, not everyone can have,
So we hid ours deep enough within ourselves,
Because any flicker of any kind of intention, or emotion,
Is enough for your ancestral traumatised hands,
To try to dig it, out of, us,
By force, of necessary.
And we, feel you.
We tell stories.
Far too many of love.
Of people and love,
of a displeased marriage, whose loss of faith in love is renewed,
By someone else's smile,
That you take and wear them secretly out In a back bedroom,
Behind closed doors, behind peoples unmarked backs;
Where lost souls go to be reborn into new names and bodies,
And you take their body, and consume it,
because you were given a smile, and,
A smile in your language means some thing completely different to mine,
And this is what dreams do without air,
and won't let go of the *******,
And the alcohol,
and the ****,
and the songs that you listen to when you feel like,
You......are......dying, out,
And the fuel is running low.
****.
There is no ******-e in this story,
But the chase is un bountiful and therefore never ending,
And we try to become everything for you,
The fairy godmother, the prince, the magic wand,
And we try to consume you bit by bit,
Eating you up, in hopes you'll grow, bigger,
And meanwhile we are posioned by the food, exhausted by being made the demon, and
The madness that sits at our table is relentless,
You, are the by-product of a lost womb, and a fatherless hand,
And our dreams flicker in your tornado,
In the storms you create, in order to ravage, some emotion,
And, we, feel, you,
Oh, my, love,
We feel you.
And we the poets we take it in,
We see it all.
We see you angry, and disatissified,
We see you breaking, broke and broke-n,
We see you destroy, thus, we are destroyed.
Our petite precious souls, with our epic hearts, our universal souls,
And that place where we hold our dreams,
We let you in.
Because we have warm fires, Big arms, and we,
We can create magic with our mouths and our fingers,
And we can help you to forget where you are and what you are,
As you, drag your fingers, round the cavernous walls in my chest,
Looking at wonder, that I've held within me , all. This. Time.
And we, the poets, can do this.
Because we have risen before and we gently glide in the night,
Looking for the sandman to pay a visit,
So that we can rejuvenate our eyes to stop seeing why,
We are not loved, oh so much, as if not so right,
And if, how, can, why.....?
Because here within in me is where your dreams came to die,
And my fingers are like pens of withdrawal as I try to **** you out of me,
Or us. We,
Are the ones whose hearts become so heavy, you will have to hold your breath
Pretty ****** tight to dive to the bottom of our seas,
To find a dead mans locker, where our love is buried.
And your faltering god, and your displeased marriage, and the mould that grows, through your ancestry,
Is no match, for us
For we are the poets, and we tell here stories, because we can't just write, a book;
The words....just don't conjoin together enough to make, me an author, worthy of a paperback,
firewood for someone's belly,
But simple words, here are built,
To keep the flame alive.
Because we are not some flittering, falling, pretty,
little whispers of things; we do not come bearing arms,
Or a key under the mat,
Or gifts at the end of the bed.
Do not be mistaken that we are the wick to your flame,
We are not treasure hunters, we do not find gold, and silver,
We are not jewels for you to sit and pore over in the night,
We do not want to join your crusade.
Because we, the poets, are the keeper of words,
The holder of dreams,
We have caverns within our chests, so large and vast,
Dreams cannot die out, or suffocate from you.
Because you, are the stories we write about,
A million souls who use their emotions as bullets on paper,
A billion breaths weaving together inbetween rocket fuel tears,
Ignited by you, a match we use to burn a new script,
A thousand pairs of hands building a home so big,
where you can never find the lock,
Because we are the poets, and we are the keeper of dreams,
And our flame never dies out.
