The Brown Eyed Dreamer

'Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.' William Wordsworth


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The Art of Living

I want to live a life full of colour and vitality,
A life full of potential and opportunity;
I want to get out and see the world
Feel foreign soil below my feet and smell
The strangeness of foreign air.
I want to fall in love with life and living,
With personalities, places,
Feelings and faces-
I want to discover.

I want to dance, sing, taste, smell, hear, see
The kaleidoscope of beauty that cascades
Through the air and ripples through the sea.
I want a life full of smiles and laughter,
A life where I wake up with wonder
And fall asleep with satisfaction gliding
On tired but smiling eyes;

And in my time of dying I want not
To think of ‘could have beens’ and ‘what ifs’;
In my final moments I want a familiar smile
To crawl across cracking lips, a smile that knows
‘I may have not lived a perfect life,
But I gave it a damn good shot.’
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We’ll fall in love with the memories we’ll make.

And someday I’m going to leave this place and see the world and I’m going to fall in love. Not with a person, no- that kind of love is too bittersweet, too heartbreakingly fragile.

I’m going to fall in love with buildings and pavements and old rusting street signs pointing me to places I’ve yet to explore. I’m going to fall in love with sunsets and sunrises, and those precious melancholy moments between dusk and dawn where reality slips away into shadows and dreams appear. I’m going to fall in love over half-finished cups of coffee and faded musty books that still hold the imprints of fingers stroking lovingly over their dog-eared pages. I’m going to fall in love with the feeling of sand falling through my fingers and the sound of the ocean in a storm. I’m going to fall in love with the creaking of a house in the night-time and the endless patter of rain against my window. I’m going to fall in love with the people I meet and the places I see, the sounds I hear and the foods I taste.

I’m going to fall in love, but not with you, with everything this world can offer me.


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Block.

I miss writing. It used to be that a pencil never left my hand, that ideas always fled into my head. I’d write whenever I could find time, and whenever I didn’t really have time too. Characters, plots, journeys and worlds would flood from my mind and spill onto paper, filling page after page of the cheap notebooks I bought from the store. I loved building a  story until it almost become a world around me, with most nights spent scribbling down everything I could think of until I could get my characters to the end of their adventure. I miss the thrill of new ideas, the hours spent in the corners of libraries and cafés planning and the satisfaction of finishing.

These days, there’s not enough time, not enough energy. School builds walls around my daydreams, reminding me of my responsibility to do well, of the importance of my future, while all the time my mind scurries like a bird trapped in a cage, willing to escape from studying for subjects I care nothing for. And as all this is happening, a greater wall looms above, dark and menacing, blocking any idea from coming to me. I feel trapped, bored, yet too exhausted to make a change.

But I swear, this drift is only temporary, and I will be back. A mind cannot stay trapped forever, and soon the shackles of exams will be broken and I’ll be free to spend hours filling pages with every trace of my thoughts. Soon I can go back to the one thing I love most. And when I get back, maybe the sparks will ignite and ideas will burst back into life, and I can carry on as before; a dreamer.

That’s all I can hope for, for now.


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I Wear My Dreams

I wear my dreams
Around my neck,
So hope lies close to me.
Slim silver chain
Holds silver tower,
And tiny silver key.

Tower talks of tales,
In new lands where
Real towers stand tall.
Key holds the secrets
Of mind’s wishes,
And silver chain holds all.


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Daydreaming

It’s always late at night when eyes flutter closed,
That hopes and dreams truly show themselves,
In the darkness images burst into life and I see,
For the first time, all that I want.
A quiet café in Paris, late October, I see a girl,
Pen poised above paper, eyes closed in thought,
A forgotten coffee sits untouched and slowly cooling,
A pastry crumbles in her contemplating hands.
An idea strikes like lightning through her mind,
Her eyes dance with delight as she comes to life,
Pastry drops through fingers, pen frantically scribbles,
Line after line floods onto paper.
Finished, she dots the last word; triumphantly drops the pen,
Lifts the coffee and winces at the cold, metallic taste.
Shifted back to reality, she shakes her head, grabs her coat,
Passes the waitress a distracted smile as she goes.
Hands in pockets, she steps through streets of strangers,
Curious eyes soaking in every brick, sign and face she sees,
She walks without conversation, but her mind rambles on,
Every ebb of her imagination filling the silence around her.
And it is that girl I see every time I close my eyes,
The girl lost in a world of her own, caught up in her very own story,
The girl, that when brought out of dreams into reality,
Could maybe someday become me.