Dreamers

The indifferent

often inherit kingdoms.

They do not pray

for the crown.

They do not bleed

for the vision.

They simply stumble

into power

with soft

and unwashed hands.

Meanwhile—

the dreamers.

We fast.

We journal.

We conjure futures

in candlelight.

And somehow

we become the villains

in our own mythology.

Too intense.

Too mystical.

Too convinced

the universe is listening.

We sabotage ourselves

before anyone else can.

We narrate our downfall

in perfect grammar.

Life is but a dream,

they say.

But dreams

are dangerous.

Dreams destabilize

obedience.

Dreams whisper:

You were not born

to survive quietly.

Delusional?

Perhaps.

But every miracle began

as someone else’s madness.

Every revolution

was once

a hallucination.

Refusing medication,

maybe dreams

are not unattainable.

Maybe they demand

bloodless sacrifice:

comfort,

approval,

mediocrity.

Maybe perfection

is a distraction—

a glittering decoy

so we never step

into prophecy.