To Be Or To Dream
We write, we bleed,
Of things we dare not feel.
We hope, we yearn,
Yet silence is all we earn.
Must a bird only reach the sky,
Before we shall say it can fly?
Or must a star shine as bright as the moon,
For its beauty to be seen as true?
I write, I bleed,
Yet I feel it isn't real.
Does this make me a poet,
Or a dreamer at my lowest?
Still I let my heart soar —
Clinging to this fading dream,
It is now my worth, my battle, my war.
But each passing day I wonder,
Am I a poet —
Or a lost soul longing to be remembered?
