My dreams are weird films,
Of images wide and clear,
With messages hard to decipher,
Like it happened last night.
It shows me not planets but people,
Moments of life I’d like to be extraordinary,
Things I’d wish they would happen,
And it does this with such skilled fingers,
That I wake up sour and bitter.
It’s amazing that last night,
How precise my dream was,
Deprived of all the flaws,
Each event synchronized,
With my intense desires.
The words were precise,
Like I wanted them to be,
Which you possibly couldn’t see,
Because I kept them inside.
And for the first time I felt,
Dreams were better than reality,
But I hate them for their perfection,
And for plundering the inside of me.
Note: This actually happened, for real. I wish I could describe you how wonderful it was. And since it was such a perfect dream I could not find an equally perfect picture. And the words I wrote are the mere projection of how I felt.