All these DREAMS I am having.

They are all free, yet worthless.

Some seem sorrowful sometimes

And some seem serious sometimes

As if they were worth of being dreamt.


I have realized the hard way;

Not all dreams are worth to be dreamt.

Most of them are not even worth

Of being considered

And some of them are not worth

Of being remembered the next day.

For most of them are just incentive

Which are placed to curtain

The eyes, so that I can be fooled.


Whether or not you like it;

Whether or not you enjoy it;

Whether or not you detest it;

Not all dreams are meant to be dreamt.

Whether or not it brings happiness

To the mind; it won't last.

It only lets you hang

Until your brain is dried up.


Would you like to hang on

To a disappointment?

Then hang on to your recent dreams.

You can wait for them like a boy

In an orphanage waiting for his

Mother, who's enjoying her youth

Only at the hour of tranquility.


Not all dreams are meant to be dreamt.

Not all dreams are meant to be held on to.

Not all dreams are meant to be thought of.

Instead of contemplating at your navel,

Grab a handful of your dreams

And take a good look at them.

Words of warning: if you stare for too long,

You will, again and for sure, be disappointed.


Why am I walking in this valley,

As if the lawn of an arranged alley?

Why is it so nice, as if there's no trouble,

Just made for a perfectly beautiful couple?

Why do I not wish to rouse from sleep,

Like promenading with a pal on the Deep?

Still, I will not let you trick me a like fool

Who may think that all dreams are cool.


Here I Wake Up.

Standing up fast and raising a cup

In the hope of becoming a shadower[1].

Rather, ending up smiling like an idiot.

Never think my mind could create a riot;

Simply to stir up surrealistic views

Where all things are allowed but hues[2].

Trying to hold on to this one dream,

Instead, I end up close enough to scream

My brain out as if a young widower.


Not all dreams are meant to be dreamt.

A dream that is meant to be dreamt

Is a dream that you can actually write down

In the next day and be able to tell about

In the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening,

And in the night, for you sure know it came

To linger until you lay hand upon it,

Whether slowly or quickly, and hug it bit by bit

Like a man kisses his wife while she's in a nightgown

And not want to let go of her until he proclaims

He has her heart fits in his palm like a pit[3].




[3]A scar


Guide that inspired this poem: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741