The Dreamer

Empty.
When you can’t find the words to express how you feel.
Your heart is shackled by some unseen force; yearning, scraping for appeal.
How is it, when the moon is high, are my thoughts no longer dry?
Surrounded, I am a waste land: disregarded. Unnoticed.
But alone, I am me.
I am no longer empty.

It’s those times in the day, when everything is calm.
Everything is gentle. Secure. Yet also wild.
That my wall is naught but a shattered glass, broken free by endless imagines.
They flood my mind with ideas. Some, I daresay, too strange.
It is during those times of day, that reality is fantasy, and fantasy is reality.

Where I am me, I have no limits for how far my mind can wander.
Things that others find unimportant, are then at the peak of my attention.
The sky is the limit, so we’ve all been told.
But why not the galaxies?
Why not travel on, instead of stopping half way?

The clouds are beautiful, you might say, and dare I disagree.
But the clouds are just the beginning, say I, the dreamer.
The star sweeper. Daydreamer.
I’d rather go on, speaking plainly, for me.
Where limits are unheard of.
And where I can be me.

Where I am no longer empty.
If I could just breathe. If I could just breathe.
My thoughts might form words.
My crippled wings may just spread wide!
If not for this emptiness -dryness- parching my insides.

“Nonsense,” say you. “How can one feel this way?”
What if say I, the dreamer, “just stretch a bit further”?
Not much height is needed, for you to see straight through my wall.
Yes. It is no longer shattered, dear one.
For I am alone no more, you see.
With you, I am empty, and so my wall is rebuilt.

You say that is not fair. That I am blaming you for my feelings.
Dear one, please know that is not my intention.
It is not you. It is me.
You are merely my weakness.
And you should not be ashamed.

“If only your thoughts could form words,” you mutter, under your breath.
“If only your bizarre heart could relay to your mind!”
Well, then I’d be a saint, for no heart truly can.
A saint maybe, but then, also, dead.
For if my thoughts formed words, then, of course you would see.
If it’s one thing my heart does know, it’s that you would not understand them, and therefore, not agree.

Such a thing, I simply could not live with.
For you see, I am terrified. Afraid to let others see me. The dreamer in me.
I am just not what I appear to be.
My loneliness is my escape. A safe haven. A shield.
It is there, I am not afraid to be me. There, I am no longer empty.

In case I was not clear, unlike my wall so sigh.
I mean to say, I am too deep. Perhaps too overbearing.
I do not mean smart! I know what you are thinking.
But to jeopardize my inner thoughts, would be to risk everything.
Because, dear one, as you know, people sting.
They are beautiful bees; bright, bold… but they’re flawed.

A swarm of black and yellow… people charge at the slightest indifference.
They sting like needles. Worse even, still.
Because they don’t realize how easily their judgement can kill.
Now, remember, I am equally to blame. It is I, the dreamer, who gave them cause.
My thoughts, when I’m alone, are much too strange, too rare, for bees to give grace, much less a care.
“Bees die when they sting,” some may pipe up. “You need not be afraid.”
Hah, indeed! Yet, why should they die for something they do not understand?

You see, my empty thoughts are much different than my full ones -my free ones.
What you witness on my flesh is only, only just, my surface!
To expose myself, would be too much, as I have already explained.
Too much.
Too much.
For I fear the exposure, the risk of discrimination.

“Well, I’d never!” say you. “That is unhealthy thinking.”
I know. I know.
But see, you already have. This little thing… this…
Mess of black key strokes…
It is a window, if you will, in my wall.
For you to misinterpret, is exactly what I expected.

For it takes a person like me, the dreamer. Star sweeper.
To truly understand such nonesense as this.
And maybe you are, dear one, the dreamer. Star sweeper.
If so, then I wish you good dreams.
Dream on, past the clouds! Where you can be you, and where I can be me.

See, I like my loneliness, dear one, whoever you are.
It is there, that I am truly free.
My wall is then shattered; my wild ideas roam free!
It is there, I am, simply put: the dreamer.
No longer empty.
Just me.