by Caroline Pranckevicius
You know how some people look up at the stars on picturesque nights, counting out constellations, like they're hundred dollar bills, and they just whisper, “I'm gonna be an astronaut.”
Or the black-board note-takers,
that seems to teach every lesson they're apart of, until the other students start to call the teacher their pet, that wants to start paving paths for the physics they'll find.
Peasant palms cupping meeker mics like a long-time lover,
pouring out just as much passion into everything they speak, sing, or subject themselves too They want to power souls with the sheer force of their voice ricocheting off everyone's synced lips
I mean we've all heard of 'em, the dreamers turned doers, turned movie plot producing machines. The main characters to our childhood attention spans, and parental back pockets.
They sell out their story to circle our heads, with laps made up of monotone motivational quotes, that we'll all remember more than them. (Because words outlast people, 1,000 to ten.)
No matter how pointless the pursuit, or how foolish the finding, we still grew up rooting for them, the social climbers and head-first divers.
They were the gentle gardeners putting down growing roots in our lower backs, so it could climb up our spines and bloom in our minds.
But in these one of a kind, special surprise, generational baker's dozen of dreamers, and doers and, seekers, and peace-keepers, who was looking out for the tryers?
The unfertilized mental farms looking for a drop of magic, to grow poetic powers from the stalks in their heads to the roots in their mouths.
But who roots for the givers? Or I guess the give-uppers?
The shy pals sitting back seat to their own anxiety. The mental magicians counting out their sorrows to roots of ten.
The up-above's, down-below's, and every-inch-in-between's,
making out with more than just their lives and other people's partners. The crushing couplets sung out by crushing couples, straining their love through the mud, until they find gold.
The perfect people punctuating pungent truths, regardless of the lives they'll lose, because they believe a single spark in one life, is worth five hundred more.
I know a few, I've seen some, and I've been one myself,
ever since I saw the end of my first sidewalk, and clawed my way through every line and rhythm and rhyme, wishing, and wanting to be a poet.
But not even the stars I design
seem to be quite as much of a lie as the future I'd built for myself Cause I push back against every nightfall treating dreams like suggestions and hopes like fairytales
putting them under my pillow
for my mother to remove the minute before I'd wake up She put a quarter to remind me that money was what I should be looking for but then again I never know where to cash in her reality checks
Dreams are like a road that stretches off into the distance,
just waiting for a car to crash into it. People plant them with so much love and care, it gets hard to uproot it from there, but sometimes you just got to sit down with 'em
and remind them of the color of your thumbs.
We could be generous, but dreams don't grow from love.
They grow from the tight fists of late-night practicing. Spiral off the back and forth of paper-airplane ideas, getting new parts each time they fly off a source.
They drip off the necks of hard-working, tongue-biting arguments, where winnings are only won from the strength of your passions, not the measure of their sum.
Dreams are like the sunrises you haven't seen, yet you still compare shit to.
I'm a tryer and I've seen a few
maybe if we work together we can still plant mental morning glory's on the sidewalks of our mental blocks to add a little beauty to everything that's keeping us up
The nights when breathing and dreaming go perfectly,
yet you're scared to do much of either, because the hope that falls from your lips could become a punishment, if it crosses the the social line in the sand and becomes a disappointment
But reality ain't easy, either.
I'm stabbed through the fence between both, acting like a metaphysical scarecrow meant to wake dreamers, and put doers to rest. (Whether I use guns or beds, is up to them)
Between reality or fantasy, it's hard to decide what you're dreams are going to be: a truth, a hope, or a falsity?
It all depends on how much work you put into it,
but just remember dreams can be like roses, because by any other name they still smell as sweet, yet are still born with the same damn thorns.