I have so many dreams in my life, it’s like no one knows who I am.
There’s a mask over my face, and I’m as weak as a baby lamb.
I write roaring, fragile words hoping that no one sees them.
I live, breath, write by the pain-screeching noise of my drum.
It has no other ear to hear it except for me.
When I look into the mirror I do not be-
Live what I see; because there is just thin air.
Wanting to be something more’s my prayer.
My dreams are in the stars, not dust.
Because I know that it will rust.
These poems are strength to give wings.
After winter there’s spring.
Fall a thousand times.
Make this your prime.