Is it an odd thing
to want to put my name on a shelf?
Pin it up amongst the other names
of other dreamers, ones who have been told many times,
probably even more times than me,
that their dreams aren’t worth following?
Is it an odd thing
to want to pour my mind out?
Use my blood as ink, staining the words
onto white sheets binding the dreams always to the world,
polishing until they are no longer
dreams, but real, solid books?
Perhaps it is.
And perhaps I’ll do it anyway.