Last night I got lost
in the vast expanses of myself.
Who knew there was so much of me?
While the shifting realities
churned before my black eyes,
changing just after I named them,
I drifted, eyes closed, on an unrestful sea
made of the most chilling noises.
Thrilling voices
soaring from the television,
as I light another cigarette.
My friend, Nicotine, seems colder
tonight.
Unreasonably less vital,
woefully less communicative.
The couch refuses to speak with me as well,
and the only voices are those of the television,
masked and muffled by the dense,
strangely spinning, parallel homes
of the dead, of the living,
of everything but me,
for I am become POET
the describer of worlds!
Laugh now, kid. It's okay.
Blame it on the television, or the acid, or a joke you could swear someone made.
But laugh, because I never knew there was this much of you,
and the things coming out of the deeper waters
are beginning to make me uncomfortable.