Dreaming

They are still Dreaming. Falling Forever. Weightless and screaming. Dim. Faint and Hopeless. Lost as the abysmal children, never to grow old and won’t know it. They keep filling their lungs with gray smoke to forget that it’s killing them. Wandering streets with eyes reddened and dimmed half opened speaking nothings about everything unessential. The girls dressed half naked to cover shame and paint their nails vibrant colors to cover the singed fingertips. Smiling yellow teeth at the boys holding soda cans and cheap cigars standing in front the corner stores. Other push strollers with little children one handed while holding a cellphone not looking as the car nearly misses. Almost payed the price, something more than the monthly bill that they can’t afford anyway. They are still Dreaming, but telling them to wake up would be stirring a bee’s hive. Who are you to sit on gold thrones in the sun’s reflection and judge the dreamer? Are you not from just around the corner, where your Mother paid rent? The expletives fly from their mouths with tobacco smoke and ash, sharp as the broken glass bottles littered throughout. Retreat. Logic never reaches hearts.

Sale, Sail

The sale. The sail. Caught in the winds, caught in the wins. I wish I could play. But they play much better than me. I can watch their wins and root from the stands even though I would never get a uniform or even a thank you personally. All the support for the sport of sales, they will never know just how much I was for them. All for the support of their sails, they won't know just how much I was caught in them. On a sea of people, they sail on the sales.
Diamonds and gold. Diamonds and gold. They always know what is cool.
Everything unobtainable for me, that I desire, they have. So I admire them from this far away standing in the sea of people as they hover above me with voices louder than mine. They don't know that I am here, but part of the reason they are is because of me in some small way. Maybe. What they give me, I want to give back but I can't. I try to fill myself on their energy but they hold back just enough to keep the want.
It's all a show and half of what really happens, I will never know. They can stay rich, from the sale and the sail and I am sure to stay poor. In the sea. Of people just like me. Trying be filled with their energy, but never will.

Every misshapen event, I devour the story of it. I have personal issues that sit on the coat hanger. I'm consumed and my mind is molding clay. They shape this vessel without even knowing it personally. I think, if I think like them, then maybe I can play as good. It appears the more I support the sail and sale, the wind shifts and the wins I can never be part of.
What They dream up, I dream of. It's a secret of mine that everyone knows. It shows in my choice of speech and attire that I pretend is of my conception. Original Fakes, sit folded in my dresser drawers. Factory manufactured goods made with cheap labor, yet expensive names. They always know what is cool. So I try to chill like them with what little means I have of living. What little means I have for living...
On an economic downturn. The price is never cheap.
Certainly I can see change. A little jingle in my right pocket. Or maybe the neighborhood don't look as nice since...
The sale, the sail. We are the sea but they make the waves.