perhaps it’s only through

the fits of my dreams at night

that observation of all

my reverberating convictions

and deepest desires can be had

 

my self- a brooding umbrella

shelling and protecting me

from the stab of feared regret

but depriving and imprisoning

my ambitions for success

 

comparable to a small bird

although kept encaged

and had once yearned to soar

has grown grudgingly content

with meekness and mediocrity

 

hopes were doll house stories

childish wishes too unbelievable

to fulfill without the fitness

of perfection and a head not so

full of silly fantasies and intentions

 

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