I don't think I want to know what I was sayin' in my sleep. Sixteen hours of tossing and turning in the middle of my living room. The dreams were an unspeakable mishmash. A swirling conglomeration of message boards and bars and people I have met, never imagined and never seen. At certain points I became worried that I would miss the next day of my dream. I was immersed, it was reality. I had things to do, missions to complete and secrets to keep. I was living a double life. My dream had it's own stresses and joys. I get no rest, even my dreams are complicated. No stone, or pillow for that matter, is safe to hide my head under. Everything smells like it is made up, like make-up. It smells like someone else is in the room. So long have I slept that my own odor has become foreign. Is it me? Probably... maybe.
I could just die right now. I could. The bomb didn't go off. It was just my mind playing tricks on me. No blast. No rapture. Nothing but my imagination getting the best of me. The best of me? Is it really the best or just all that I have left? I wish I had more to say.
I'll try turning off all the lights, burn some incence and light a candle...
a sack of flesh and a heap of bones
I already been told that once you leave you can never go home
no one ever told me how to build me own
letting down everyone gets harder everyday
I am bound to screw up in favor of everything eventually
it stands to reason, it stands to numbers
it is a gambler's game
blues so deep that they might be purple
aware of my arms, bending my knees
don't you stumble
don't you falter
you only have so much time
they want you at the alter
this poetry shit is strictly for the birds. maybe when I am inspired I'll write something I like. For now, this drivel stands as a warning to myself.