Those Dreamers

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

The beginning of a life, as told in many acts.

Submitted: March 21, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 21, 2018



Those Dreamers


It must be that time again,

To put the costume on and,

Remember a day when,

We were freshmen.


If I’m asked to talk about it,

I say it was long.

I’d say everyday I wanted to quit,

Because everything just felt wrong.


I’d sigh,

Act like I didn’t care.

Maybe if my humor was dry,

My emotions would be spared.


My act got to some,

I could tell.

Moving to the beat of my drum,

I made one person’s life hell.


I never got over that,

Because I could never show face.

Settle for the haul, I sat,

A familiar place, a lonely space.


At first I thought it made me strong,

And that it happens to everyone.

But as I sang my songs,

I thought I might come undone.


Truth is...


I act like I don’t,

Because the remembering hurts the most.

What could’ve, might’ve, should’ve,

It’s hardly anything to boast.


I was a dreamer,

Believing in things that couldn’t happen.

Only now, as a Senior,

Do those dreams start to slacken.


I can write stories that I call art,

But what is the worth if those stories,

Come from an untempered heart?


Why does this actor,

Expect answers from an empty chorus?

For all his detractors,

You’d think he was a Taurus.


But in all seriousness,

Why is there this emptiness?

An uncleanliness,

Of the soul.

Of the mind,

This messiness,

Something you can’t stitch together.

A dismembered man,

A thousand days of rainy weather.


And so he beats on,

“Boats against the current,”

Day by day, blowing his circuits.

This man, trying to be a machine,

Artificial like his hopes and dreams.


The standard delay,

It’s gonna happen tomorrow.

Only now that he can’t stay,

He’s staring down a no-show.


Well that’s not going to happen anymore,

Because if he wants to stay true to the core,

He’s got to tell the truth before,

He’s all out of time and what’s more,

He loses sight of the door.

He’s pounding on the walls, he’s scratching on the floor,

He’s trying to get out, his heart ready to pour,

And somebody better catch it before it leaks past the shore.


And the audience calls for an encore,

But he’s busy fighting his own war,

And so he ignores the decor,

And looks for, a mentor,

Someone to ease his mind and explore,

All the things that causes him to abhor,

And tuck those memories deeper into the drawers.

Stuck in these lines,

Drowning in meaning.

What if I said, “everything was fine,”

Would you still believe me?


...And so he walks to the edge,

And bows, kid in his prime.

Who knew he’d made a pledge,

That this would be the last time?


No, thank you



The purpose is out there.


© Copyright 2020 Dan Zuniga. All rights reserved.

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