Nightmares...

are like poetry,

At least metaphorically,

The metaphors are like falsified honesty,

So unreal and yet they express how we really feel,

Maybe that’s why we cannot dream

When we feel insane,

Because are honest nightmares are now the real deal,

So we lay still,

Eyes open,

Reality broken,

Stuck hoping,

That the ceiling has the answers

But it's shy

It hates talking,

We lay there thinking

What this life is,

What it represents,

Waging wars in our heads,

It’s a crisis of identity

When all the past mistakes

Leave so many things unsaid,

When those big dreams of the past have gone and fled,

Laying in our comfortable but uncomforting bed,

We ask ourselves

Who we could have been,

Who we could be,

If only those shooting stars could grant our wishes and help us see,

If each star in the sky...

Gave each person their identity,



If only it was that easy…

I guess for now we’ll just stay stuck...

With these identity crises