HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. W.B Yeats I'm so tired of trying to trust people. Spreading my dreams under the feet of those that might not tear and rip, from lack of caring. Trampled under the boots of those whom everlasting desire is the plundering of happiness. I've grown weary of life, tired of the incessant meanderings of the day to day. I've tried to find my place, my destiny. Perhaps I truly do belong in a statistic.