He, the dreamer —by Míchealín Daugherty We are the ones who do not think of the world Heads so full of hours, days, months The allocated role of living, so much so That the big things do not fit anymore We see only our own personal miseries Rising like steam, whistling out anguish from a copper teakettle Filled with the listless sorrow of ourselves; lost in our own private torments Forgetting the inequalities: Race, class, injustice, war. Yes, I was burned by the steam And I melted like a candle, and I kicked the balm away. Because, I am like my muse; we do not see as he does. We have wrapped ourselves comfortably in the Negativity blanket of forced living. But he, he is the dreamer, reaching out Throwing ropes to the woebegone Throwing dreams to the realists Throwing hope to the unbelievers Not from the naiveté of youth, but from the goodness of heart. How many will he pull from the teakettle? Only the ones who haven’t already been Drowned by life...I think. Copyright © 2006 Ireland's OWN. Page last updated 26 Sep 2006  Ireland's OWN Logo &  Background by Míchealín Daugherty Copyright © 2006 Ireland's OWN. All Rights Reserved