me, myself and I

An essay on the internal struggle of feeling good about myself.

Today,

someone told me

that my dreams

were crazy



I can't imagine

that being true

If dreams were realistic,

they wouldn't be called

dreams, now would they?



I want to be a writer,

and travel the world.

People tell me that I can't do that.



And when I ask them " why not",

they laugh in my face;

and tell me

that

I'm

crazy



maybe I am.

But since when is crazy

bad?