Perhaps I am a dreamer,
and a dreamer's dream
mixed with a writer's talent
can often have devastating consequences.

I wouldn't call myself a poet,
had I not first called myself a dreamer,
an idealist,
in love with the mere thought of love
and all its tragedies.

My own soul is vacant,
but it's the dream that keeps my pen alive.
The dream that wakes me,
the dream that pains me,
the dream that inspires me.

And should I stop dreaming,
should I go numb to thought,
all such inspiration,
all such pain and waking
would be in vain.

All that would be left of me
would be a stolen thought
from a dreamer's tongue,
while I sat waiting in the corner.
Forcing my eyes closed
and hoping for a dreamless sleep.

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