You Ask of My Dreams

I search frantically the world,

Starved, for something touchable.

For meaning,

Desperately scouring for memory.

You ask of my dreams,

And it feels bleak to respond.

For the words I shout are those of others,

I am everything but an author of my own.

You ask of my dreams,

And I am afraid I cannot paint them,

For I have spent my life,

Not knowing the art.

Nonetheless, I try

And I make a scrapbook.

I pick pieces from the lives of others

Trying to find myself in between.

You ask of my dreams,

And somewhere I hope,

You are convinced,

That I am more than the just shallow figure you see.

Image- Blank Canvas