Dreams are earned not given.
You may be stuck but you ain't in prison.
So get up out your own damn way.
It's time to build, it's time to slay.
Build them dreams and slay them doubts.
In your heart you know what I'm talking about.
You got this, it's all in your hands.
You are magical, with a magic plan.
What plan is this? I don't seem to see?
Well, look harder, you can't ask me!
Look in the mirror and be real with yourself
Ask sincere and deal with the hell.
The hell you must walk through to find your true voice.
If you can't see your dreams, you have no choice.
You're likely numb hiding from your demons.
You ain't begun so you can't even see them.
They choke your soul and dull your day.
But if faced they too can be made to pay.
Tax them with force and face them head on.
Feel their presence and they will be gone.
Or continue to hide and they will continue to haunt.
Blinding you from all you do want.
So if you're alive, I feel you're here for great reasons.
Embrace your dreams and everyone of your seasons.
-Instincts-
"it's not about what you want. It's about what you feel. Listen to your Instincts!"
About the Creator
Instincts
Writing since the age of 7. My soul longs to put pen to paper and cast my melodies into the air. I am here to remind you of yourself and all the greatness within you. I am here to remind you of your Instincts. Listen to your Instincts!
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
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