Dreams Don’t Come True

Dreams,

they don’t come true,

and yet they do…

 

as if fulfilled by a warrior,

and promised by a bloke,

 

dreams,

they don’t come true,

and yet they do…

 

take my life for instance,

a boy and poor,

 

trained by liberals,

and raised by whores,

 

who was I to say,

I would write poetry one day?

 

dreams,

they don’t come true,

and yet they do…

 

insightful at best,

and still a guest,

 

with pictures of presidents,

and filmstars in my head,

 

dreams,

they don’t come true,

and yet they do…

 

with passion to match,

a can do attitude at best,

 

dreams,

they don’t come true,

and yet..

 

sometimes they do…

 

and yet 20s have flown by,

and still I may cry,

 

of the foul of Hollywood,

and the stink of the nepotists,

 

and yet I remember,

I never gave a shit,

 

for to be born without silverspoons,

but ladles of plastic,

 

is enough to remind,

it’s the wise who want no part of it,

 

but to see a god

raised in a house of golden shrines,

 

while I beg for foodstamps,

and a place for my behind,

 

dreams,

they don’t come true,

and yet,

 

maybe,

just maybe,

 

they do…

 

and yet I relax,

and wait with held breath,

for a dream that wasn’t my own,

but rather foretold,

 

dreams,

I hear them,

and am told they come true,

 

but not in the way you’d expect them,

not even with glue…

 

dreams,

I’m full of them,

but how about you?

 

To Dr. Seuss…

About Michael Medlen

My name is Michael and during my free time I avoid having a day job. Strangely enough, this gives me the freedom to run this blog. I write just about anything that can be considered art. I also occasionally post articles that may or may not be relevant to the theme of this site. You’ve been warned.
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