dreams are just that...

once upon a time...(cliche' book opening), i believed in pursuing what one wanted to do. these...dreams. i just knew that if one was to follow their dream, happiness would surely follow. at least, thats what my mother told me. well...welcome to the real fucking world, where shit don't work out.
i had a "dream" of being a writer...once upon a time. that time is over. not too long ago, i started to write a book of poems for it to be published. many people have told me, "You're such a good writer, i cant wait for your book." so i figured, "why not?" this is why not, people dont buy poetry books anymore. WHY? CAUSE EVERY BODY AND THEIR LITTLE SISTER CAN WRITE POEMS. or so they claim. every retard thinks they can capture the emotion of a topic just because they know how to throw in a rhyme. so people like me, who choose not to rhyme, look like every other fucker out in the "poetry" realm.
i called a publisher one day and told him that i had a book of poems that i wanted to be published...he flat out told me no. for that previously stated reason. poetry is no longer an art or taken seriously.

but this publisher did tell me to keep writing and that if i get a manuscript of an actual story, he'll gladly publish me. great. i always loved to write stories. so i started one and kept a few ideas in the back of my mind...until today...

my girlfriend and i went to the mall for nothing in particular. window shopping and simply enjoying one another. something happened (i cannot remember exactly what it was) and it knocked me off the cloud she put me on and into a more somber mood. we walked into Borders where i almost instantly gravitated to the "African-American literature" section...that is where my dream ended...
and i woke up

i could write a great book...but niggas dont read great books. they read Zane, and Eric Jerome Dickey, and other shit. books with half naked colored people on the front was all that could be found in the front row of this section. "The Diary of Miss Jane Pittman" and "A Lesson Before Dying" were the only two books of real content in view. but they were also the only two completely stocked. "Purple Panties", "Dear G-Spot", "Gotta Luv Ma Sistah" and "Gotta Luv Ma Sistah 2" were damn near completely sold out. i knew not a damn colored soul would read my book (not including friends and etc.). i wouldn't write a nigga book...couldnt. and thus, i was awaken from my dream. my dream of being a well known writer ended.
and though my girlfriend tried to keep my dream intact, i still watched it fall and shatter in front of the African-American Literature section.

i am awake...my dream had just started but it was a nice dream.

now reality

i need a real job

dreams can come true
bullshit
thats why they're called dreams

oh how i hate the optimistic, lying assholes who make this shit up