Am I a ghost, a set of bones, that rattled
With words, their unions, an accident
A matter of chance?
Or am I something other
Than what I am?
A dull professor profession truths
For a bid-weekly check
A cold, hard, forgotten dreams
Who has no dream left to dream?
Who am I ?
What is the worth of love?
What is the worth of love?
Am I to be transformed, realigned,
By the mallets of reality,
The less than perfect accomplishment
Of practicality?
The failed dreamer
Who gives up the dream?
That isn’t me,
nor will death itself stay me
nor will death itself stay me
When the dreams still stirs,
No more than exhaustion or that sick
Perverted life of labor which I must endure
What is to love when the dream is gone?
Who do you see in my shoes,
But an empty being with empty eyes
And nothing left to live for,
Working at nothing but empty phrases
For doctors or lawyers
or judges or fools?
or judges or fools?
It is those that can’t believe
That don’t believe
I will not be turned into a statue
I will not be turned like a car
I have my lived life very clearly
A pool of unmoving water
Out of which words spout.
Do not turn me into bread and butter
Do not demand what I cannot give
Do you dance with a poet
While wanting a banker,
Reading about us in books
But never really knowing
Who we are.
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