Boys and Girls Who Dream And They Die
These days I often find myself
lying on my pristine rock, hard bed
thinking about why the world would
ever care about someone like me.
I wonder how my thoughts ever drifted
this far. Maybe social media?
Or my own self-conceit, brimming with
forbidden passions even van Gogh or Picasso
couldn't imagine. Yet, I only say that
because I can't imagen them either.
I'm a washed up never-has-been.
What I can't figure out is why I even
care. Daring to dream is supposed to be
a good thing, or so my childhood memories
tell me. Then why is it that these days
dreams only come in the form of nightmares?
They cloak themselves in fire-roasted
s'mores, the smell of freshly baked homemade
bread, and thin mint girl scout cookies.
But underneath that mouth-rotting exterior
is a rotting interior - evidence of one of
life's well known facts - the exterior tends
to exude what the interior feels. My interior
switches between the kind of fear that would
make a grown man go numb, and the kind of
numbness that even Elsa couldn't create.
I sigh (something I also do a lot of these days)
and close my eyes, and hope to dream of dreams
better than the reality I call Hansel and Gretel
Copyright © Rebecca Kiser | Year Posted 2025
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