We insure our insecurities by dubbing

these things dreams in the first place.


I’m pulling and tugging at the strings

of prescribed and preconceived notions 

choking our throats and limbs:


Dreamers are deluded


Stifled by the smog of apprehension and

assumption that the deed is not already done,

we are asphyxiated into still silence:


Dreams are delusions.


They float in the air around and atmosphere 

above. It isn’t until we throw our arms up 

above the heads of the masses that they 

become the hot concrete beneath our feet

as we run ahead towards the horizon.


It’s as simple as shifting your steps to move 

toward what you choose. So, I choose.

I believe. 

I hear. 

I know

what the wind whispers is true.

My future is in the stars


This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world


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