Dreams

How often I'll wonder who wins,
As I dig down, deeper still and
My hands bleed into the earth.
Then I'll glance up at the sky and
My full brown eyes'll cut through the white
That keeps my mother so far from me.
Are there dreams in Heaven?
And if so, are they made of gold?
But Gold is heavy; wouldn't it fall on our heads?
"Dreams cannot be so obvious,"
She would tell me;
"We must all wait our turn for God
To grant us hereafter."

But her words would echo and
Die out with new ones:
"Dreams are for losers."
My father used to say and
I felt obliged to think it true;
After all, my skin is dark
And there ain't no good fortune
That'll give my way.
"A writer?" he'd exclaim.
"What silly man suggested that
Writing could be for us?"
And in respect, I'd bow my head,
Leaving my father and all of
His mockery to further eat him away.

If there is someone to tell,
I'll answer well, now:
I am not half of a whole.
I am a young girl with two limbs and
A beating heart, no less.
Tell me what I cannot do and
I will impress upon you,
To eagerly attempt
Whichever acts you so desire of me.

Wishes are rarely granted, I know this!
But dreams, these things are wrapped about me,
Granting warmth unwittingly to my little body.
What more can I ask for
Than to hope with each new day
That He will answer to my infinite call?
I am not the only girl who cries
In the light of day we've been given so freely.
With all our heads turned up to the sky,
Our voices'll be sweeter than a songbird
Soaring in and out of Heaven,
Touching angels with its wings.

I'll try every day, just for the dreams
I've sewn into my only quilt.
I'll write with all o' the passion in me,
Releasing a feverous, pent-up rage,
Louder than the birds and voices that ring.
Then He'll prove to me a light unseen;
A light that'll daze my innocent eyes!
He'll give me strength that'll move my pen
Across the sheet of paper and
Across the heart of every man
Who says I cannot write.