Living out the dream, is what he does;
in the shape of a pen and a notebook,
Awake in make believe, wherever he goes;
he stops, he smiles, he overlooks.
Living in a dream, his book he writes;
his journey etched in the curves of a bleeding pencil,
perfectly written, these striking lines;
he writes, he perfects, he wishes for time to stand still.
Dreaming on the go, but nobody ever mentions;
where does one draws the line.
Striking lines resembling the underlying perfection;
a perfection he has perfected with time.
Living out the fantasy with theatrical interactions;
pretending to have an audience with held breaths.
Pretending as if nobody has cruel intentions;
waiting for your dreams to shutter dead.
Living a fantasy, the world is a stage as he knows;
awestruck by the pretentious limelight shining constantly,
burning its way towards his corroded ego;
slowly burning his fragile skin indefinitely.
A dreamer living reality like foreplay;
thinking of the next comeback before it rolls his tongue.
A dreamer who says it is all fair play;
words shoot deeper than any gun.
A man spending his optimism with people;
people who add value to his existence.
People keen on him being gleeful,
they too are nothing more than pretense.
A man dismissing those who bring nothingness,
praising those who stand with his outlandish takes.
A man who wants nothing more, nothing less,
than authenticity that is hard to replace.
