On Writing

(poems go here) Where do those dreams go? I ask myself, in a smog filled sky Those smallish, simple wishes Those biggish, tallish, imposing ideas That build the castles in the air We have heard tell about? I ask myself, raising my voice above the heavy, confused traffic Do they know where they are going? When there are no signs to guide them? My hand holds a pencil Chewed and frayed, and broken, but writing On the walls, on my window On their hearts and minds and eyes Writing till I'm tired Writing till I'm dead Words are nothing now, but when Those dreams come back, what will verbalize them Sterilize them into something oh so real A peice of paper is waiting to change the world To change my world To make something great, that when I'm old and fading away Will be read by someone who asks just as I do "Where do those dreams go?" My dreams are here, in the folds of my book, in the torn remains of these scraps of notebook skin It makes them real enough to believe It makes life good enough to live And I will share what I have found In this robot-driven crazy town full of darkness and desparing people wanting a little light