I'm dreaming of stars.
Of love, of money, and fantastic cars.
Of artistic creation, the fame, and success.
Of hope, of longing, and beautiful ***.
I'm scared of the future and staying up late.
I've wrapped it all up just to dream it away.
I feel terribly bad but I cant stop the bleeding,
My dream-clotted heart just might keep beating.
But its keeping me down 'cause I'm failing, you see.
I think it might be such an awful disease.
I think I'll combust of this crippling confusion.
I think I might lust for some perfect delusion.
I think this has gone on for too long.
I can't find a job 'cause I long for a song.
I can't stop feeling nostalgic, although.
I dream of a house, of my little home.
Just enough to keep on moving forward.
Just enough to live 'til I'm older,
Without too much trouble and enough for my kids.
I dream that maybe I'll finally get rid,
Of the dreaming that's been holding me back for so long,
The one that's made it so terribly hard.
Florescent light in the early morning.
The sun comes up when the rain stops pouring.
Ticking, brooding clock in my head.
I wrap produce on plastic beds.
Plastic earbuds bring me joy
By vibrating air through the void.
"Fake Plastic Trees" by Radiohead.
I'm reminded and filled with dread.
A podcast speaks on microplastics.
Oceans filled and consequences drastic.
Bothered by the nine to five.
These vibrations keep me alive.
Pulled from a shelf and myself on a lounge,
I sit with the brittle paged book.
Try as I might, my immersion is dashed
From the sounds of dinner cooked.
My will delivers a writ to read,
My mind runs to and fro,
The television demands my attention.
Progress, none will flow.
Instead, I sit with prose,
And write a poem on the fixation.
Five minutes have passed; The T.V. now dull.
Finally, I receive my satiation.
I shall never meet the souls whose paths were mere inches from mine.
Our lots cast aside from each other as the gods baited for us, the fish.
Take the bait and swim again; hooked deep In my bleeding mouth.
My Heaven is small and quaint;
A little dingy and filled with faceless saints.
It's a small bookstore with disorganized shelves,
Plenty of material to feed me well.
Comics, games, records, art,
A million things to start.
I'd sight-see amongst my creature comforts,
And read on near death experience.
Near Death: A Look Into The Minds Of The Brave, Page 152.
"It is often reported, that people who experience a near death feel only the nothing around them as they slip out of conciousness."
Even the anxieties will be there,
For without them I'd find no joy in being in small, dingy, quaint bookstores.
I haven't seen you in a year.
And I'm almost twenty four.
I still fell seventeen.
It's running out the door.
The ground beneath my feet.
Time don't always mend.
Here I am;
Sitting like the ******.
My hearts empty room.
It's been a while since seventeen;
Six years since house gigs and cut teeth.
Put my mouth to the grindstone,
Because I still don't know anything.