Dream

From urge to urge, I desire without restraint nor pause. My wants remain an uncataloged procession of limitless possessions. This stream of noxious fume fills my expecatations as a balloon, stretched tight and thin, filled with desire. And reality is but a pin. And over and over again my dreams die with a heart-stopping pop.
But I define reality, as I define me. And reality need not be so sharp, and my dreams not so thin. A dream must know it is a dream, and it must know that it must toil upon the earth, and so, reality becomes that soft pillow that helps keep me dreaming.

Hands

There are those that build with their hands
Who trust the laws of divination
Who have faith in the act of creation
Who believe that beauty is beautiful.

But the doubters have come
With axes and clubs
Who deny that these things are,
Who declare our imaginations to be lies
Who say beauty itself is an unsubstantiated rumor.

The hands show what the eyes sees.
There are those who create whole worlds from nothing-
And those who see nothing manifest oblivion.