This is not Poetry

When I think about all the movies that made me cry

The fault in our stars, the in between

I want to love, and live like the people in them

And why should you call me a dreamer, and a fool

Is it anymore a fool's imagination than the God some believe in, and the same one some don't?

Is it anymore a dream than the infinity we use to describe miracles we can neither see nor prove?

Is it any less real because it's fiction?

When I think about lying underneath the sky

The galaxies, the light, the stars and clouds entwined

And see not the constellations some people claim

Are they any less real because I neither see nor believe them?

Are they any more fiction than miracles I believe unreal?

Is this life not no one's guess?

Is this poem not a complete mess?