And what do you believe if not in what I am, a ghost, a set of bones that
rattles with words their union, an accident, a matter of chance
Adult professor professing Truth, for a bi-weekly check, a cold hearted
forgotten dreamer who has no dreams to dream
Who am I what is the worth of love
Am I to be transformed, realigned by the hammers of reality. the list, then
perfect accomplishment of practicality
The failed dreamer is one who gives up the dream
That is not me, nor will death itself stay me, when the dream is no more than
exhaustion or that sick perverted life of Labor which I must endure
What is to love when the dream is done
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
It is for those that can't believe that don't
I will not be turned into a statue; I will not be turned like a card; I have
made my life very clear, a pool of unmoving water from which words spout
Do not turn me into bread and butter; do not demand what I cannot give
Do you dance with a poet and want for a banker
You read about us in books, but still do not understand our nature, we living
on the brink of Extinction locked to a dream
What is it you want if not what I am
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