My God, my God, my God.
Thrice said,
As I lie here.
My heart racing,
My muscles aching,
My body buzzing
Like a tongue pressed to a nine-volt battery.

Why am I here, when my mind takes me elsewhere—
To places so fantastic,
So alive,
That to write them into existence would take ten-fold genius
And the ink of ten-thousand pens.

Landscapes spread across my vision.
Innuendos play in my brain.
Though, when I return to the moment,
All I see are my stubby toes
Wiggling from under black sheets,
In a nearly-black room
Coated in drab paint,
Hardly come alive by some utterly generic wall ornaments.

I wash in the same bathroom,
I spray the same perfume,
I dress in the same clothes,
And I thus transform myself—
Again—
Into a copy of the man that lived a day before…
Having created nothing,
Only holding the vastness of a universe
In his dazed, beleaguered mind.

Thrice said, a phrase becomes magical—
At least, that is what I’ve seen...
So, I say three times:
My God,
My God,
My God.