Dreams are meant to be said aloud,
Not written on scraps of paper
Or even worse held in jars.
Dreams are not meant to sacred secrets
Only to be thought of over birthday candles
And with dandelions held close.
They aren't meant to feed on moments of despair
And exist only when an eyelash falls.
Dreams that aren't spoken of can’t be nourished.
For Speaking is often times the breath of life that they need
And you see dreams are wishes,
And wishes can so easily remain unfulfilled.
Dreams can exist but not come true
And if you don't believe me just ask yourself,
How can the universe know what you want,
If it never hears it from you?
Earth is my home.
My house is in the forest, flowers, and trees
It is in laughter with friends,
And secrets shared between lovers.
It is in fireflies and tents of carelessly strewn sheets.
My home is in the wind, and the shifting of its breeze.
It is not singular,
Or defined by a maps outline of a land's form,
Or by the names of spaces that man may create.
My home is in people,
And very few cherished things.
It can't be watered down to one stripped flag,
Or contained in one place's anthem like song.
My home is in people,
Though I may not live where they dwell.
My home is in life and life after death.
It's not in territories and lines that can't be crossed.
My home is not limited so as to forget,
That we are all made of earth
My home is in bodies and spirits and souls,
Souls that I would never betray,
Not for a treaty, not for a war, not for anything that may exist.
And it all seems too surreal,
To live in a home made of people.
And it all seems unworldly to want peace and to believe,
That we do not have to fight.
But I think you have to live, not in the world that you glimpse
But in the world, you wish to achieve.
So my home is in people,
No country or nationality could make me forget,
That today I may want to fight this war,
But only because of where I was born.
Never realizing that the man I claim to hate,
His motivations are close to me,
For we are the same.
My home is in people and those people are in me.
And in their differences, it's myself that I behold.
There's nothing more beautiful than the initials of lovers carved into trees. Etched into stone, park benches, and desks, because in that place they will remain. There's nothing more beautiful than knowing that in the moment some love was pure, untainted and unafraid. Nothing can compare to the knowledge that though their hands may be far away, and though the love may have disappeared, somewhere and someplace, that love will always be real.