You know at times I use to hate when people asked me, “What was my dream”. At the time it never felt like a question that I could genuinely answer because their were always glassy eyes of  expectation watching me. Some sort of deliverance spilling from their eyes like an oil rig, a painted picture of something they saw before and yet I was too young to realize. I told them what they wanted to hear, “I want to become someone great in America who will give back and make America great again”. What if to be perfect was to be imperfect? See all my dream is, is simple . To live a life of no regrets, to live a life of what poetry taught me. I would like to ride the waves of upcoming racial issues, to ensure that my future is someday a root of someone else’s, to believe that my purpose in life is to not mark history but to live in it.

Somewhere along America’s wicked timelines we forgot just that, to live is just as simple as to eat. Everyone has to be something in life beside their job , remembered by that, your life has no value if your not written in ink, scared by the greatness of what you contribute to society. Well, I just want to come and go like the rain, a simple shower that was needed to nourish the world and remind them what they once need to survive. My dream is to bring back the simple, reimburse the normal, and redefine what it means to have a purpose. I will not be chained by a messiah of expectations, forced to walk a daydream of my beliefs, counterfeited into a society that I will not help create unless created by my envisions, no. No one will define simple as “not much” because its more than I can ask for, more than I can hope, more than I was ever given.

Wasn’t there a time when a dream was just as simple? When did the world become a small-minded place with a catastrophe of nightmares? Where on Earth did imagination and Carefree, run off to. For I say my imagination is just as big as your nuclear weapons, just as powerful as your new inventions, and just as scary like you America. So bring your politics, your vindictiveness on social norms, your whats a real woman ordeal, and your lower grade stereotypes, and at the end of this little fairy tale, I hope that the excuses and lies come crashing down on you like the nastiest tidal wave pool you’ve ever seen. I won’t be apart of a society that is hidden behind a veil of ignorance, I wasn’t given 100 billion nerve cells to have each and everyone die on some racial fight and self-conceited ideal that “we came first”. When you're finished getting all the faults off your, chest, knock on my little dream door and tell me the ending, “will ya”.

In some way I believe like a daydream on a boring day I’ll be pulled back into reality, forced to face a problem that has become mines of color. That I’ll have to choose a side and those who choose the baseline are pitted into a chorus of betrayal and hoarse screams. It’s not as if I’m looking for freedom from America, I’m all patriotism wrapped in a nice neat bow. I just don’t want to become a walking cyborg of nationalism, choices, and secrets. If I do then, God help me malfunction and be the AI of my own rebellious beliefs on societies contradictions. Whether there's a tunnel to this madness of stupid decision and free blame, I’ll keep looking, because where I give up or fall some fallen angel who sees beyond my own beliefs will pick up where I started and turn my dream into a manifestation of their own.

So I’m waiting. I’m waiting for space to open up a miracle. To tell me that we were wrong, that we were always wrong. That fault and blame are the devil's advocates, that we created war and hatred and it’s not just some “Eve defied God”. To express to me that we created what we wanted to hear. We became and beseeched our morals. That we created a path and along the way we either got terribly lost or we gave up on that path and paved a unplanned path of inevitable horror. For in this world I am sleeping. I was always sleeping. Afraid to open my eyes because the dream was so much sweeter than the candy,  more inviting than the friends, more trustworthy than my society, I became safe. For my dream was just that, a dream. I know it will never happen and I’m not disappointed, reality does that to you. In anyway I have no hope, no interest, no long destiny to change America. All I have is my dream a dream inspired by poetry.