Poetry

Dream Wars

What are the frames like

surrounding your dreams?

Is everything separate,

preventing thoughts from straying one to another?

Rigid uniformity, same shape, same style

down to the wire used to string them up.

Do you ever take them down, remove the frames completely,

throw the thin sheeting into the air

and see what part of you it settles next to?

What if it strayed into your motivation,

urged you to want it, achieve it,

regardless of whether it would be deemed proper,

respectable, useful to society?

I see the struggle behind your eyes as you think

how to answer, your want for freedom

fighting with your self-restraint, trained

from birth to keep a tight rein on

wishing upon ‘impossibilities’.

I want to tell you how to overpower it.

But it’s one of those times

when you have to find the answer.

What are your dreams telling you?

Poetry

Response to the Dead Poets Society

If you squash them,

if you bend them,

if you project your face onto theirs,

their minds will break:

reflections shattered, a mass of cracks and holes

where a person should be.

Their bodies will rot, bulge, blacken, weep.

Kindling that longs to ignite

if only to prove that it has some self-worth left.

And at the end of it,

still it will not be your name you see,

but theirs, as it only ever could.

You failed them,

yet stand where they still should.

Poetry

A shelf of names

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.