A contradictory piece that I wrote awhile back for Valentine’s Day 2012. I’ve performed this one on several occasions, and it’s been recieved fairly well. Hope you enjoy, folks.
They say that a dream is a wish your heart makes.
I’d beg to differ; I believe that a dream means to gouge out your eyes and let the windows of your heart breathe in the subliminal exuberance that walks hand-in-hand with whatever noun that you see fitting.
It is a Shakespeare wink, peppy snap of vanity, swagger threaded resilience snaking around one’s body like the arm of a titan.
That, my friends, is a dream.
And as a dreamer I think it is safe to say that Valentine’s Day is one of the most depressing times of the year,
It makes me reflect on those February sunsets where I hypothetically wept on the candles of the birthday cake for regrets.
I loathe the lovers, yet applaud their schemes,
their vigilant virtues that sleep endlessly with my vices.
Their ability to put into work what I desire either makes me want to try harder or just continue with my dreaming.
It’s not as easy as it sounds.
Because dreamers are asleep in love, hardly realists like the sweethearts.
I mean, I find myself waiting disorderly for some girl’s Ferrari heart to collide with my Smart Car heart and cause the most euphoric debacle that will leave my nerves rattling each time I hear her pulse.
Almost as if we are two drunk drivers that coincidentally made eye contact after we were pulled out of our cars onto stretchers made of held hands.
But our drunkenness doesn’t stop there.
We begin meeting each other to sip poetry at a tavern of curiosity where we chase each other with our eyes.
And I grow inebriated by her spirit,
and she grows inebriated by mine,
and we become love alcoholics
Love dipsomaniacs with no intention of bringing a halt to our daily romantic binge.
Because this is what I sound like when I’m intoxicated;
“If only I could turn you inside out …
And see the world that lives inside you,
I bet there’s children that play tag near a rainbow that falls from your heart,
And a fountain that sprays stars from its spout,
I bet there’s graffiti that says LOVE all over the walls,
No profanity or words that will put me back on a trail to nowhere,
But, LOVE, we don’t have to find out,
Let’s imagine it as a city that keeps peace on a pedestal,
Where the government is ruled by a heart,
Where the clouds always drift slowly to cover up a hot day,
Where the rain is never frowned upon, but skipped through joyfully,
I can’t put this into anything more than a childish dream,
So I’ll say this:
You’re beautiful on the outside,
No doubt about that,
But when it comes to where the heart work its magic,
That beauty will always come before the other,
So when I gaze into your eyes,
Just know I look inside,
To that world that keeps me smiling endlessly,
For you are a dreamer.”
But occasionally I’ll sober up in an attempt to sneak in one night stands with my bad memories, because they seem to know me so well.
They massage my ego, they kiss my pride, they hop on my ignorance and they give it a ride, oh how I love those whores.
We create naughty schemes on a mattress for kings because the past is the most comfortable place to do things that I would assume involve sleep.
But when those memories lay themselves beside me after a long night of playing Jenga or Scrabble, I get choked by an insomniac condom, choked up by the emotions that I had cheated on, choked up by the future memories that I have wasted, simply because I wanted a piece of past!
And I laugh like all deniers do, trying to tell myself that my brash is nothing more than a temporary pimple on the forehead of my aura.
I am a cheater.
I cheat on my true emotions.
Hide them under my skin,
Anti-happiness medicine that clouds my mind in a fog smoke of expected depression.
A man on a piece of paper,
God has drawn me as a martyr for nothing,
A stick figure in a draft folder that has not been touched since August 6, 1993,
He has one pencil and no knife to carve it into a flawless blade of imagination, so he leaves me to fend for myself in a world of unfinished business.
The twisted disasters of your worn down pencil heads leave us ironically sharp through our dull minds, our bleeding hearts, our lack of trust towards a world that has left us disemboweled to the point that our dreams are nothing more than a blank slate that sits patiently next to the word “why?”
It consumes us like tidal waves, consumes our dreams and washes them on shore as concocted nightmares, deathly beach whales, leaving us battered and chained and tattered and maimed to a lifeless career as title slaves –
Because when I grow up . . .
“I want to be a Power Ranger!”
“I want to be an astronaut!”
“I want to be rich.”
“I want to be a poet.”
“I want to be a husband.”
“I want to be a father.”
“I want to be loved.”
“I want to have friends . . .”
“I want to be respected.”
“I want to have a voice.”
“I want to just be able to tell my mother that I love her and forgive my father for all the pain he inflicted on my brothers. To forgive his blunder.”
To smile without stapled cheeks.
I want to live.
“I want to die.”
Because I sometimes fall short of my own expectations. This burning desire to gaze upon a photo of someone I love while knowing that they love me back. It haunts me. It soothes me. And I could take this photo and place Waldo in the face of my anger, and even though that it’s evident I’ll miss the open precedent with a hesitant settlement and then tell myself that it’s irrelevant, because I am masked by the same false face that made heaven and hell an opposite.
For I am a dreamer.
A perpetual schemer seeking to reap the benefits of the celestial elements that made the depressed man an emotional astronomer.
A star gazer.
A cosmic vagabond that tags along with no mind for time and a black backpack.
A first place insomniac.
Because the bags that bear hug the waist of my eye-lids are gold medals awarded for each night that I passed on sleep to pitifully map out the stars into my own interpretations of what heaven might be.
And for each lifeless dream I weaved from the palette of my mind, a cosmic tear fell from God’s eye to scar my wrists with converted nightmares that the majority said were only lies.
Such scars have dried,
But they proceed to bleed every time I isolate myself with a pen and a wish
I’ve got strong wrists from writer’s bliss, so now when I spell out truth you’ll know that it’s obvious that the first amendment is carved within each cut and slit in my flawless wrists
You can’t tell me what a lie is
For a lie cannot live within dreams
Because dreams spray anti-lie biocides into the confides of our anatomies
coating the heart with an utter fragrance of Cupid’s grandest clichés
and eclipsing the mind with a billowing silhouette of a page-by-page reprint of Pride and Prejudice
where a poem for us tangles our breath in strings of iambic respiration.
A poem about a man’s mending heart–shy and brittle–waltzing with a woman’s heart of gold to the tune of their tapping pulses.
Yes, a dream.
Cave artists brushing up against the walls of angst filled minds, coating thick, sorrowful skulls with burgundy paint, profusely stroking and engraving the cranium with vibrant jungle gyms of words, words, words so that the silence that hums in our heads could seem beautiful, could seem admirable in its darkened normality.
Dare I dream…
Dear Valentine’s Day,
I’m no foreigner to longing, nor am I distant to dreaming,
All I have is a writer’s sense of arrogance and the clothes on my back,
and I’d be willing to give it all up just to write one poem for that girl I’ve never met
She is doused with little sprinkles of near insanity and indescribable brilliance
Her Shakespeare winks, peppy snap of vanity, swagger threaded resilience snaking around her body like the arm of a titan.
But a man can only dream.
This is an ode to the lonely.
The people who hold onto life by cornerstone threads that unknowingly dangle from God’s Earthly quilt.
the ones that are inspired by the crimson of a gentile giant’s misunderstood aorta.
The aorta is ripped like a poet’s best draft and then thrown down to the innocent world beneath us where the norms of society let it melt in their mouths like frozen aspartame.
They indulge in the brilliance while we sit alone in the corner noting those lost tomorrows that engulf the sky,
for we are dreamers.
and nothing more . . .