Open my eyes
I take my pill
To feel alive
I won’t sit still
No more complaints
No more joint aches
It may be fake
but I’m awake…

A trance-like state
It is a place
So I can hide
No need to face
There is no shame
No more disgrace
The astral plane
My inner space

-

A dreamland Utopian place;
my mind where it exists
Then leave me here, I wish to stay;
This place I want to live
The world out there’s too harsh and cold;
I’m tortured day-to-day
It’s safe in here; stay till I’m old
I’m better off this way
Though it’s not real, it’s real enough
As long as I believe
I’m not like you; I’m not as tough
So, lies are tales I weave
Turn into truths inside my head
My new reality
I live my life as if I’m dead
I’m fine; Just let me be

***** words aren’t always hidden
in symbols, are they?

Some poets use words to wound,
and they know my weakness.

The subtle weapon of language.
The tool of a master.

Artfully chosen,
then Drawn like a dagger.

Slaying my attempts
at peace of mind.

Because they know I always
read between the lines.

My death will be liberating.

And I do not say that in the sense
that I am going to find a cliff
and take a good jump off.

No.

I am just trying to find a
clever way to tell you

that I do not know what is going
to happen next.

You see,

there is a
fine line
between
dreaming and
mortality

and

I am finding out for myself
that being in love
does not always
involve

being awake.

And for my sake
I fall in love with daydreams,
nightmares,
hazy realities
and

the hung-over idea

of not being enough.

It is all out of my hands.
                 It is all out of time.

And the only thing I have left to do,
now,


is decide.

I am the dandelion.
Transformed.

I was a useless ****.
Unwanted.

Now I am a fluffy force.
Reformed.

*******!

I sail on the wind.

I begin again.