i kind of want to die
but i know that there are no
gold-tipped sunrises
in the basement of the dead.
mostly i dream in colors
that aren't black and white
because my head is full of spectrum
a copy of a copy of a color.
the only thing that keeps
my eyelids from drooping
is words on the pages
of the endless stack of books
in the corner of my room.
sometimes i think that
each letter is a person
and their figures join together
to form large crowds
that fill the spacious voids
around me.
my friends spill out of my mouth
and move around in my brain,
they are words,
not lifeless
but constantly moving.

*(a.m.c.)