Writing Out Your Dreams

I remember nothing of my childhood but the dreams I had.

Dreams of growing old, charismatic and bold,

but I don't dream like that anymore.

 

I am old now, but not for not I am sad.

Meaningless faces - a series of spaces

lined up on the page in front of me.

 

As I write I try not to feel bad

because surly I might have a chance to right

the wrongs I have written.

 

But when one writes of dreams how can't you get mad?

"Dreams are a catalyst" would argue the fatalist,

but really fuck that.

 

 

Don't you see that all this talk of dreams is just a fad?

They get you moving and feel so soothing

but what have dreams done for you?