THE DREAMER

Dreams of the past, generating melancholy.
Not even past realities, but possibilities of folly.
If I had been bolder, handsomer, more confident…
But then that would not have been me, only someone with me as a resident.

I know all the words to say, all the quick witted replies.
But the real me had problems, issues, and lived with lies.
I imagine myself as a failed actor, not genuine in any way.
Only in my dreams am I something more, so I dream everyday.

I’m at an age where it is too late to make life mean more.
It is what it is, they say, and I say sure.
They also say flattering things about me.
I keep silent, on the inside they don’t know how I can be.

My fortress of solitude, my home, run down and needing an overhaul,
Is a truer testament to what ails me than all the flattering scrawl.
I am a writer; true stories my specialty.
Fiction would put my dreams on display for public hilarity.

So I live life unhappy, knowing what must be done.
But only in my dreams is anything really begun.
Perhaps the dreamer can make something of this life,
One small step at a time, ignoring the inner strife.