Dreams are Dust

These dreams seem to be made of dust.
For all the good I've made of them amounts to nothing.
For all the dreams I dream are nightmares.
This I want and need is nowhere.
I see it just out of reach, and it taunts me.
Should I pick a simple job?
Should I pick a simple outcome, and income?
I would be better off with it, but even more unhappy.
I would be dead that is the truth of it.
I would be dead!

These dreams seem to be made of dust.
For all the good I've made of them amounts to nothing.
For this book I've written has no eyes to see it.
It has no fans to need it.
Is that my great life I planned?
A world of nothing.
A dream of nothing.
A hope for nothing.
Or shall I die, and get it over with?