Break me open and let my dreams pour out onto the pavement.
A thick, oily mass, tinted the color of failure.
Who would know?
The night sky above is the eternal *** of ink
from which the greatest quills go swimming for ideas,
and to it, let my dreams evaporate and return,
for is that not where they all come from?
Is that not where they go only to return to the earth as acid rain
over the heads of those in need of new perspective?
Though, if it's not,
or if my fat and heavy dreams are too saturated with defeat,
then simply leave me in the street,
and leave the sticky pool to ooze down the nearest gutter
to disappear.