If you know what you're doing,
math can be beautiful
… in a way.
it makes sense and the rules are
unceasingly steady and
equations always have answers,
even if – when – reality
only gives back half-baked replies.
suddenly zero and cumulative frequencies
and summations and Slovin's formula
seem more like a religion
than a science.
and, scientifically speaking, dreaming
how can i reach for the stars
when i can't even stay up in the air
for more than a few seconds
and the nearest stars are lightyears away.
and even if i do
manage to get up high into the atmosphere,
what's going to stop me
from burning to a crisp.
i've got big dreams but small palms
and i will never be able to
stretch these fingers of mine wide enough
to hold them all.
it just doesn't make sense for me
to still go on wishing
when the math is telling me
i'm wrong for holding out hope
for all these impossibilities
to come true.
but I'm not going to stop dreaming
are wishes your heart makes
and this heart of mine doesn't know
– want – to stop.
and, truth be told, if one is
to keep their sanity
they shouldn't go off dreaming.
for there is no room for
logic when you are
unmoored, ties untethered, and free
to go off chasing the