Jean Gray

Dreams don't come like lighting,
breaking up the monotony of your so-called life,
the storm,
and flash like the tail of a bottle rocket.
Real dreams
sit on your shoulder
and distract you during classes,
keep you up at night,
and seep into everything you do,
a bad batch of green slime,
staining how you view the future,
b/c you can't imagine life without them.
Dreams adhere to HS sweatshirts
and smell like new shoes.
They wedge between car seats
and play in that new song
you can't forget.
Dreams smolder,
fire burning through cold nights of indecision,
as if it's all in the ashes,
flakes of grey gathered
like gifts waiting to be given;
Jean Gray.