When I was six, I had ambitions
I wanted to fly to the moon
I wanted to walk among the stars
I wanted to sit upon the fluffy clouds

When I was seven, the doors to the wide world of sports
Became an elusive, yet tangible reality
I wanted to play in the big stadiums
Dig my feet into Bermuda grass
Under the lights
Or under the sun

I wanted to sign autographs
And tell kids to stay in school

I wanted to be on T.V.
with a microphone in my face and a camera flash in my eyes
So that mom and dad could jump up when I flashed across the screen
Knowing I made them proud

When I was eight, my imaginations switched
I wanted to serve my country
As a spy with wicked powers and an eye for danger
I had my gig all planned out
I would wear a sleek, midnight black suit
Like a ninja
With double crossing swords and ninja stars
I would silently zip line to my next missions
Eventually earning the Medal of Honor for my braveness

Then at nine, I shared my life plan with the class
Mrs. Carter said my ambitions were ridiculous
I was nine; I had the right to imagine
My classmates followed her lead
And my dreams were poked, scratched, tugged, and ripped
They had new names
Stupid, unrealistic…dead

At ten, the mockery expanded beyond the walls of what I had thought to be a closed room
With a sign that read, “reserved: for thoughts and wants.”
I had finally felt what my dreams had felt
Ten years of pure brilliant thinking
Gone with the smirk of a woman and the laughs of kids

At eleven, I was pushed into my first locker
I would become familiar with the blue paint and taste of metal; almost like blood
At twelve, I was punched in the face, once for each stupid dream I told
At thirteen, I wanted to kill my best friend
For “going with the flow”
At fourteen I laid hands on my mother
And at fifteen I seriously considered suicide

I went back to my room reserved for the thoughts and wants
but they perished
It seemed as though with each poke, scratch, tug, and rip
The dreams disappeared

At sixteen I was asked to sincerely consider a life path
But like a faithful dog my mind returned to the reserved room
Searching in vain for dreams but to no avail
I had found that I was being told what to become
rather than pursue what I ought to be
Society had rules
My dreams had not met the standard

At seventeen I was the opposite of what I had once dreamed of as a young boy
My internal being and everything I had stored away
Had been violently stripped away
What was left standing was a simple crust
A shell
An outer coating
Like a burned doorframe after a destructive blaze
I stood amongst my childhood ruins
Alone
Cold
Charred
And scared
My vocabulary was enhanced with each awakened day I faced
Failure, embarrassment, retard, waste
At thirty-eight I sat down with a plan in my head and stubble of a pencil in my hand

I wanted to be great
I etched those words in the very curb that I slept on
And four years later
I etch those words deeper and deeper into the cold, wet granite
I make empty promises to myself
Day after wretched day
Cold night after starry night
We call it failure

But who’s to say it’s not a fresh beginning?
A beginning I have refused to look towards
Yet, nevertheless, a new beginning?
I am cursed to live in a pessimistic world where dreams are shot down like quails on a clear, blue-skied afternoon
Where childhood fantasies give way to the distorted way of living we call “careers”
Delayed starts aren’t failures
But indications of a child holding onto his dreams
Until the last breathe of the night gives way to the morning shine and possible new beginnings
Where an imaginative child can use the world as his playground
To put his ideas and dreams to work
And maybe, just maybe
The world will become as we have all pictured it
We were all once that small six year- old
Dreaming of signing autographs
Or riding unicorns
Or living in a palace made of marshmallows

Dreams are not ludicrous food for imaginative thought
They are chances to capitalize
To create
But mostly, they serve as reminders that we all have our own ideas
Of what is good
Bad
Evil
Delightful
Scary
Or emotional
It’s an infinite, God-given resource bank in which we all can invest
And perhaps dreams will be looked at as more than just
Well, a dream.