One Line at a Time

A poem for the dreamers.

I am a man, a man for all days,
American too, and American raised.

But these titles aren't ours, they're there just for them.
They have titles for hours, and we have a pen.

This pen that we use is the costume we choose,
When we wish to be heard, when we wish to amuse.

My life is a colorful river of rains,
And my poems are the fish, the life in its veins.

A world ran by dreamers, by poets, by lovers
Is a dream of the poets, the lovers and mothers
Whose brothers and daughters whose life has been smothered
in wars that are forged by the wallets of others.

So pick up a pen when you feel like explaining,
Why exactly you smile, why when it's raining?

Because I'm a poet, I'm free and they loathe it
For they all have the seed, but they simply won't sow it.

So they label us hippies, faggots and dreamers;
As they kill and they take, and we call them our leaders.

Hypnosis encloses our body and mind,
so I fight with a stanza, one line at a time.