The dreamer speaks at night

I’m ordinary by day, I’m no Picasso at night

Nor can I translate into color the beauty of a starry night

Nor am I a classic, no Shakespeare, no Austen

Sometimes I find the words, most times I only know to hold a pen

In truth, I’ve no regret these dreams have come to wither

That I’m not to turn brilliant, as an artist or a writer

Greatness is a choice, that is what we are often told

But it is one that comes with chance and unyielding passion to hold

Call me a pessimist but I am not aiming for greatness

I’d rather be in a better pursuit of trying on kindness

 

I’ve come to the truth that when dreams die out there is no but or why

And that not everyone is stellar and not everything can shine

It matters not if my life is remembered in pages or written in the sky

I’m contented with my days and breath as long as I can call them mine

 

It is not acceptance that lies behind my eyes

All I’ve said above are pitiful reminders and lies

That I am no bearer of wisdom nor of beauty

Mundane, clock-ticking days are my reality

I’m no great poet and this isn’t poetry

In truth I’m a dreamer and this is a demonstration of insecurity