Showered in Poetry

Dreams

Dreams,

Are nothing but a means to an end,

A certificate that you yourself found a way to make your own reality bend,

That you, have found yourself inside, deep down.

We each see within our own hearts,

A fog of war, a fog that has torn through us time and again.

We see in others what we want to see through that fog.

We see the good and the bad all the same,

But we aren't the only ones to blame.

Life itself, is but a story. The Author has no name. No past, no present, no future. Just a state of constant existence, waiting for an end. Waiting, to find a way to make his reality bend.

The author doesn't dream; his dreams are our reality. His reality is a painful, dreadful existence. He watches as we tear our own hearts apart daily, living in confliction from every action. Forgetting every lesson learned as we watch our skies burn holes in the fabric of space and time.

As each letter hits the paper he writes upon, a note from a piano is played in the background. He cannot hear the sound, nor see the piano, but he knows that it is there. That just outside of his pitiful lair lies a beauty which cannot be described. A person who only has one purpose, to play that piano like never played before. To teach the world, to write its own score.

Eternity was never fabricated to control us; it was described to inspire us. It was brought upon us, to show us, that we all have time. Every mistake, every disease, every impairment, every disability, none of it matters. We are all, and always will be, a humanity. A race built upon being different. A race built upon the belief that although we all exist in different forms, shapes, and sizes, we exist as one.

We all breathe the same air, we all drink the same water, why can't we all be the same family?