idealistic worlds,
utopias,
only dreamt by foolish men in their sleep.
and some say,
"pragmatic is useful,
idealism is hollow."
yet here we are,
built upon the blood, sweat, tears, and dreams,
of our predecessors.
our dreams is what makes the impossible,
possible,
without delving into something volatile.
dreams for the future are laudable,
without delving into escapism.
imbeciles,
are always stumbling or rushing,
never seeing the power of the soul.
yet,
wise men,
know you can have dreams,
without becoming an escapist.
(this was the original poem for "dreams without an escapist" but it got moved here because i had conflicting ideas lol XD)
YOU ARE READING
amber daffodils (completed ✔️)
Poetry"i stood on the plutonium shores of the lake, where all the poets had went to die, the mountains bejeweled with snow. i saw nothing in the vast expanse, only the stars in a hazy trance, yet when the sun rose, and night came to a close, i saw marig...
