Were full of thought,
          but empty of
                 understanding.

A singular drop of knowledge
          can be lost within
a puddle of unknowns.

But a single droplet
            can still make ripples
that show us that waves

don't have to be big, to understand everything.

I've lain on this horrid couch for days,
vintage in hand
ever staring
at this hideous popcorn ceiling.
A cheap white, low lying coffin lid.
You can never rehabilitate the dead
We are dead.
Yet, more alive than any of the sane people.
How I pity the sane.
Boring.
****** to a life of hell they are.
In these popcorn ceiling caskets.
And routine,
is hell~A

What does it mean to be

inhaling oxygen
breathing life
into my weary being,

culpable to my constant
throbbing consciousness
as intricate webs
that were once woven
into my mind
crumble to
the onslaught of time?

What stories could be told
about the needle in
the metal garbage bin
in the gas station bathroom,

about the thin
brown skinned
woman
rolling up slow
as I ride my bike
while getting soaked
in the pouring rain
after eleven P.M.,

about the misconception,
the keys clutched in my
tense hands,
a heart of suspicion
that never becomes reality,

about the uncertainty,
if I should be at ease
or stand tightly on guard
while strangers watch
and walk around me,

about the social programming
that even though I know exists
still affects the way I react
more frequently
then I care to admit?