Dreams
Location
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].
[1]Pursuer
[2]Protest
[3]A scar