What is real,
I mean so real?
You and I breathe,
And we’ll all have a last breath.

Now, am I being real?
We live life, with set boarders.
Break the boundary, and you’re out of line,
And block the freedom, this is how we set the trap.

Write a line, or sing a song,
Of love, hate, hurt, to die, or like.
Dare any of it comes true, but to fight,
Love any of it comes true, do we need to fight?

Let’s make this up,
That we can just change it all.
But giving all, can be a sin, they say,
But it’s ok to sing the lust of sin, even to all.

Is this a fantasy, our world?
No, this is what we made to be real.
To want a better life we hope if we could,
But this is our fantasy, yet you’ve made it unreal.

The whisper in my dreams,
My lips to make a soft sound.
Hissed by a memory, and hope,
Wanting not to lose the same story.

It’s the dream that lapses, it’s motive,
It’s our dream that we keep in the motion.
Like a star that has, or will burn out, if it does,
So the dream that we’ll even forget, never is real.

It’s a choice to voice myself,
Sleep of this mind, and it will wake.
But still having the memory somewhere,
Still at a lost, and to feel, we know to be fake.

To be found awake, and daydream,
Conscious to feel, we think it, to be real.
Making the sense we see, or hidden it seems,
Only it’s not happening, it’s whispers in dreams.

©2007, Ron Globe