Have you ever felt like writing just to write? or in my case typing just to type? What happened to doing things just because it felt right? life has become so up tight. doing things for a future that might be bright. Lets be honest, nothing’s guaranteed. No one really knows what you need. You struggle, and for what, just to have lots of money. What ever happened to being happy? What ever happened to having a dream that you really believed you could be? What ever happened to the creativity that altered your reality? the one that got obliterated by the monotonous robots of society. The same one that these robots encouraged at the age of three, and then told you at the end of elementary that “YOU ONLY COULD BE”. maybe they have things backwards. Maybe the dreams we dream are our reality and and their reality is the nightmare fantasy that wants to keep us asleep. by limiting our originality, our individuality. IT’S HARD TO JUST BE. but in your dreams you dream big you dream of being the true you. The one everyone looks up too. the one that smashes the accepted constricting social norm that haunts you.*BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP*. alarm wakes you up, You try to fight it but you get dragged back into the black hole of what is your reality. But if it’s a dream why do you have a memory? Maybe you were awake and you went to sleep. If this is true then maybe this reality is a dream. If this is the case then we can alter our dreams into what WE WANT THEM TO BE. SO MAKE YOUR REALITY A DREAM!
-BLACKMETA 🔲
BLACKMETA 
I connected to when you said “Maybe the dreams we dream are our reality” I’ve always felt that it’s fascinating that you can still wake up with the dream still vivid in your head. Also how you get flash backs from those dreams as if they are supposed To have a deeper meaning or a connection/sign that your reality is altering
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Words for you Mr. Holland:
Here light inverts into dark,
with a flash of iron and the molten spark
of something forged behind a mind;
by an author’s eye: the focused grind
that looks to pens as fingers like
they were the metal turned into pikes,
set to battle the greatest demons
that live just close enough to love
to achieve the toughest treason.
These pikes I see within your words,
poised as if to kill the scourge
that rests and festers ‘neath the skin,
that itch unscratched, that itch within
to be to others through the pen
what you are to yourself, but then
the words can never fully say
all that you dream up every day.
2/23/2015
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I am an eye looking inside the box high in the sky not judging but analyzing and creating my opinion based on my knowledge and what is exhibited through the behavior of others and my own personal experiences. I am just trying to connect to those who feel the way I do. “birds of a feather flock together”
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