I need someone to tell me everything is going to work out. Slow me down. I need someone to assure me that the dreams spinning around in this creative mind of mine will, in actuality, come to life. Talk to me, you dreamers out there. I know I am not the only one. Just tell me it's the world, not me. It's the cruel, harsh winds of this place throwing my balance off. It's the pool of whispers of the hopeless, the curses, and cries from the lonely. It's not me. Tell me it's not me. I wake up to legs tangled in these warm sheets and I stare off towards my dresser and repeat to myself. It does not have to be anything more than what it is. It does not have to be anything more than what it is. But we will make it more. We will build this city of dreams and have a picnic on the highest hill our desires had painted. I'll feel your finger tips brush my hand, and I'll look over at you. I will meet the eyes of my dream, I will meet you. I will experience you first hand, first touch. First kiss. I will live you. My dream, come to life.