dreamer the fiction seer of visions
the illusions of perceptions
the daze of humans
the false water shimmers
in the distance as
we the believers
transcend this temporary
existence
do we softly go
along the hot sand  burning
our souls
or can we make haste
imagining our
ultimate destinations?

I can hear the music
To the bottom of my feet
I have the lights off
Why don't you come and turn them on
I haven't even put clothes on
From the shower i took
Hair dripping wet and I'm cold
Where did you go
So far away
Why did you runaway
I don't see the positive
I can only see the rain
You told me I've been acting grey
Why does matter
Couldn't have you waited
I hear strange voice at night
Only to realize it's ours
In my dream
I can almost feel your presence
Behind me
Almost

Why even consider this a poem?
Unwrite it.
Take it back,
but it's too late.

Ink scribbled on rustic pages,
or pages made to look rustic.
Let's face it: you bought this notebook at a bookstore.
It's got to look special for all your elaborate gifts to the world.

You're that special snowflake, yeah?
Your writing against the world of oppressive darkness
surrounding your poor brain, boy.

Write your way out.
****** Toons the wall, and make sure your escape.

Between the lines
You read my story
The pain I felt
You washed in glory
New letters rose
The words reformed
As Angel’s marched
With time forlorn
On Satan’s grave
A vesper bell
Salvation rings
—all lies in hell

(Philadelphia Pennsylvania: June, 2014)