Array ( [sid] => 157159 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Dreams [time] => 2010-02-01 14:02:48 [hometext] => Realizing your own inner strength for your future etc. [bodytext] => 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.
[comments] => 0 [counter] => 131 [topic] => 21 [informant] => JakerBaker88 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 4 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Dreams


Dreams
Date: Monday, 1st February 2010 @ 02:02:48 PM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: JakerBaker88
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.


This poem is Copyright © JakerBaker88


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