Flames

When I was a kid I had lit up a countless flames inside.
And every day I dreamed with my heart burning with aspirations.
And every night I screamed with my sounds deafening my own ears.
Those were so close. So true. Right in my womb.
I could feel those kicks inside my body.
And every day I walked on those grounds of fantasy,
of my utopian world. It was thrilling. Exciting. Exhilarating.
Each pulse lived the dream. Each inch craved for it.
Every second of every minute of every hour of every day, I lived a dream,
thinking one day it would be a reality.
But some of the flames died out over the time. I couldn't judge the direction of wind.
Now I am out of my house. I see those broken windows. I see those creaking doors. I stroll around my neighbourhood. Guess what? The landscape has changed.
But the epicentre was my own.
I'm striving hard. I cannot behold these dilapidated structures. I have to rebuild from the debris. 
While some of the lamps are still alive, I'm refuelling them with fierce energies.
I want to feel. I want to cry my heart out. I want to exhaust myself to those inaudible beats.
I want to be alive. Again. With hope. With lots of it. I'm struggling. Struggling my heart out.