you call me the pessimist
the eternal realist
& wish i knew how to dream
& breathe optimism into the doubt i hold so dear & near to me
but then i think of the times
when i was floating
elated
hoping for things i know seemed intangible
silly even
but would it have killed you to have believed in me then?
if not the dream,
at least in me,
the dreamer
who you claim has never been
nor ever will be.
but i swear,
every death
every departed essence of someone
had a reason
for being, & then.. not being.
sometimes its easier to forget the motive
& just deal with the results.
