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"A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures." The Picture of Dorian Gray

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

day one hundred seventy-one: dreams.

betrayal
you taste familiar
like a bitter old friend
who decides to say hello
but you know it's just o be polite

jealousy
you sting like the taunting words
shouted across a the local playground
where children learn to swing and run
to cuss and lie

disappointment
you blindside us every time
life is going smoothly then suddenly
BOOM there's a failed plan or a bad grade
or a secret that's been spread amongst your friends
that just makes the world fall on you

what's the point in dreaming anymore?
where do unsuccessful dreams go?
are dreams ever unsuccessful or simply never are removed
from that holy alter of "dream" that we all have for ourselves
dream, come down from that pedestal, and let me have you
before all the evil things in this life
take over
and i forget how i came up with you
in the first place.

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