[Newspoetry] From such stuff as dreams come

[DL Emerick]

Why do I write?  Why do I read?
Why do I write about what I read,
of what I think of what I read,
of what I write about it all?

Strong ego, I'd cryptically say --
few outlets for the active mind,
except the basic verbal arts,
and a deep belief in ideas,
in their vocal expression,
as if a good poem, a good song,
a good essay, prose of sorts,
founded in a genuine argument,
makes any difference in the world.

I guess, at all times, I believe in myself,
as someone who has something useful to say,
something that is worth hearing or reading,
and I suppose a lot of that is delusional,
the illness thinking writers experience.

Oh, I've try party entertainment,
just to be amusing, to my friends,
and none of them have ever sent me away,
until just so recently, painfully so,
told me that it was a worthless effort,
told me to find a real working job,
something that others would pay for.

It's hard to hear your dearest loves,
when they say to you, "You are worthless:
your life has no value to anyone,
your greatest works are mere trash,
less worthwhile than simple cartoons,
than billboard ads, than junk mail."

Oh, you might as well tell me, plainly,
you love me no more than a pile of shit,
pooped out as the waste from eating,
and I can only say, in response,
I can't help it, minding that it's me,
the one who reads, and writes,
the one who thinks, too much,
the one who lives in dreams,
who lives for his dreams, immaterial,
and never expects to find them real.

Even when he has a real scene
that seems to be his fondest dream,
it doesn't stay long, but metamorphs,
the others in the dream become monsters,
not frightening but ugly and insulting,
rejecting me as if I were the unreal,
a thing not fit for foolish dreams,
because I remain hopeful, in love,
with the dream of a dream world,
the dream of a world that could be true,
if people let no monsters possess them,
by submitting to evil practicality.

By the practical ways of the world,
my friend Diogenes looked for truth,
impoverished and lonely, yet seeking.
He carried lanterns with him all day,
looking into the vacancies of faces,
staring into their empty eyes, deep,
questioning them ever, in dialogue,
to find at least one honest soul.

Those of us like him like him,
as he was not to change the world,
searching to see if being had soul,
knowing it was a fruitless search,
and yet ever going on, nonetheless,
hoping to plant his questing seed,
deeper than man plants seed in woman,
deeper than the accident of children.

Oh, my friend Socrates sought truth,
transformed, transcended stupidity,
by showing reason superior to all else:
reason leads to the reason for living,
to know the truth of every living,
and yet, Socrates was fond of wine,
and apparently fond of chicken too,
and did not mind that people feared him.
Even in his Apology, when he told them,
I have only lived my life seeking truth,
and if the found truths are unpleasant,
do not blame me for that ugly fact,
and if I have found no greater truths,
blame yourselves for not finding them,
for I had hoped you would find them
when I did not, and show me their way.
Yet, all you do is wish to kill me,
to still my voice, to have quiet peace,
by the way of unthinking in the world.
You accuse me of corrupting children,
by teaching them of thinking ways;
in your bitter jealousy you condemn me,
find me guilty of acts of terrorism,
as if I ever sought to overthrow state.

I write and I read and I think, I do,
whenever I have time to defend being me,
when physical necessity does not rule,
and I am left only to solemn commands
that logical necessity of soul gives,
in moral imperative, to know truth,
to test such knowing, by telling you,
to see if you'd be echo to my psyche,
as to the little found to be true,
and the much found to be so false.

I'm not Socrates, nor Diogenes,
no followers exist to follow me,
because I am a follower of dreams,
which serve only to inform my truths,
and would you follow them than me.