Being a Dreamer
Being a dreamer is never boring,
Its like a boat without its mooring,
You can pretend to be a fish,
Swim a bit, laugh, act so childish,
Or you can fly to the nearest tower,
Dig a hole and plant a flower.
When the moon is howling full,
Pensive ideas make their pull,
Grinding, grueling, gritty grains
Stenciled stuttering standing stains.
Eyes transfixed by things oblique,
Ennui is only of and for the weak.
In rapid jests of poemy words,
Vowels flutter like milky birds,
A leap of faith in corrupted phrases,
The rhythm amiss like crooked faces.
You take an apple but taste a pear,
You brush your teeth but get white hair,
It’s never boring like I said,
A pickled world can’t raise its dead.
(Which methinks is kind of like saying:
Signs and symptoms are always dismaying)
Play is a losers infinite no-end game,
You draw some circles straight and same,
Make from the hip and cross a heart,
Go figure out how, just promise to start.
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