Run, run, run...

I'll indulge you that you never spoke truer.

I'll helplessly hand it to you.

Because I always dejectedly handed it to you.

My soul, my breath.

Solely because it was right, that's what you said.

...for doing the right thing.

Because that's what I do.

The right for all of the wrong reasons.

And I still wear the sorrow.

Inside and outside of my sleeve.

Scowl all you want, please. Me, too.

Eet

Sometimes dreams are easier to live in. They're so short-lived. And full.

I have to wonder if we'd start getting bored with them because they're now our "real lives."

And it seems my dreams can take whatever direction I really want. Or whatever my subconscious wants. Some would argue that our actual lives can be directed however we really want, too. I disagree. My dreams seem to have much more color and life, passion, feeling. And I don't seem to break a sweat.

Generally, my dreams produce some kind of peace. Then I wake up to start real life. All over again.