We insure our insecurities by dubbing
these things dreams in the first place.
I’m pulling and tugging at the strings
of prescribed and preconceived notions
choking our throats and limbs:
Dreamers are deluded
Stifled by the smog of apprehension and
assumption that the deed is not already done,
we are asphyxiated into still silence:
Dreams are delusions.
They float in the air around and atmosphere
above. It isn’t until we throw our arms up
above the heads of the masses that they
become the hot concrete beneath our feet
as we run ahead towards the horizon.
It’s as simple as shifting your steps to move
toward what you choose. So, I choose.
what the wind whispers is true.
My future is in the stars