Sketch.

Sometimes dreams aren't to come true

I loved the thought of dreaming about the wonferful things, of her particularly

The idea of a girl I scribbled, crumpled and tossed

Compartmentalized in the part of my mind where the other sketches were

I usually scribble my ideas in lead pencils or charcoal

Simply because optimism isn't the colour of those things

But I always outline them in red since

Well, caution always looks better when mapped out

On blank sheets of paper

But I loved her still, simply because she was mine

Not to own, but to dream of

You cannot call yours what belongs to the sea

For she was like a minnow

That I grasped for but slipping away

Within the blue

Hope as minute as the lifespan of a bubble

And as I rest my pencils, the points broken

Much like interjection within the flowing of a conversation

I day dream with the strength of a man who

Has trained for the marathon of life

But forgoes it

Simply because that would actually mean living the dream

And there is no magic in that is there?

Author's Note

Another poem birthed from writer's block. It isn't that great but let me know what you think.