I'm Only Dreaming...

Facing myself melting away amid these four walls...
It's a mere quiet understanding of the way
A man would be who put the whole world
In a lockbox and left it idling.
Dreams are fantastic,
But bitter all the same.
I could dream for days unending but
It would stop,
It always must;
And then you're left at the corner,
Wet and alone.

So I take to this quiet prison called writing;
Boucing off the walls the hints or thoughts or dreams,
But never quite making clear what I feel and know.
So I'll end this on a philosophical note:
That which we possess inside is easier felt
Than expressed with pen, hands, or throat.