Dreams such selfish things;
Such childish trinkets, 
Carried in the pockets of yesterday’s youth
Should be forgotten. 
For (someday soon) society will crush us——
Under the weight of our imaginings
And our longings. 

Dreams: The End of us all. 

(Or so I’ve been told, 
By those I have known, 
Have met and belonged to.) 

“Dreams,” They’ve said, 
“Are wasted things.” 
I, myself, was not meant to dream—-
Only to work. I was to be conditioned,
Like a racehorse, to find a suitable profession; 
One that made lot’s of money,
For money is what matters most: 
It makes you the toast of the town.

Happiness? It’s nothing.
It won’t get you anything! 
Anyway, wouldn’t you be “happy” making money?
I thought I would be,
But something lurking deep inside of me said, “No.” 
You would not be happy, 
Miserable, yes. Happy? Certainly not——
Because——You have always been a dreamer,
Are a dreamer and will die a dreamer,
So dream why don’t you? 

Why don’t I? Why can’t I? 
This is my life, 
This is my journey, 
This is my chance at living:
The world is too full of nonbelievers 
It could use another dreamer—-someone like me,
Unique, for I know who I am
And what it was I was born for,
Which was to be a writer.

Speaking of writing, 
It was through that happy medium
That an epiphany struck:

Dreams are unselfish things; 
Are the secretive whispers of the Heart,
Carried in the pockets of tomorrow’s youth
Should be remembered,
Not forgotten.
For (someday soon) society will buckle——
Under the weight of our imaginings 
And our longings.

Dreams: the Birth of us all. 

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