Author of Dreams

Oh why do I write, a question commonly heard

Is it the love of hearing myself speak the common word

Or is it a wish that is unlikely ever to be heard

A dream that is so totally, completely absurd


Yes, I always wish to be seen and to be famed

But it is unknown who shall ever accept the blame

Of course I know that it will never be true

Surely as I look in a mirror at you


The hopeless dreamer with no real force

But one with no end to thoughts of course

Can it ever be that we give up our hope

Sending us on to the dangling rope


Perplexed as always as we sit beneath the shady tree

But not content to be what we will always be

It is all that we achieved, not nearly what we wish

A puddle of goo with a brain, in a lonely Petri dish


A life gone awry, but it is hopeless to fail to try

And so I go on writing, although always wondering why

Because it is painful to see it coming to no end

So deep into depression it will sometimes send


Under the tree without much hope it is true

With a partner that sees only you as you do

Making it go no matter what doesn’t arise

Cause some dreams are never limited by skies.


Barbara Blackcinder


About Barbara Blackcinder

I am a poet/writer with a need for words. There are so many out there that I haven't used yet. They define all reality and mine when you read those from me.
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