Dream

Epic poetry.
Let me tell you a secret.
Or perhaps it is the dream of an imaginer.
I dream of creating stories
Of paying the bills by letting my imagination go wild.

Yet, the wings of imagination are bound tightly to my back.
I cannot seem to cut the leather cords
I am falling and falling.
I dream of writing stories.

Of happily ever after
yet, I laugh at those beliefs.
Why do I believe that happily ever after isn't for me?
Why do I believe that miracles don't exist.
Will never exist.

How I dream of chance meetings.
Of having an agent seem me writing in this library
and of having someone say
you have talent.

You have potential.
Let me hone your skills.
Let me show you the way to finding your dreams
Instead I muddle through a peat bog
Swallow the stagnant water
and gag as a corpse stares up at me

The corpse is me.