Counting the ‘pops’ on the popcorn ceiling
Without sleep how can one dream.
Without dreams how shall I see my future,
My past or my present?      
A fitting sentence    
carried out slowly.
To inhale, consume, **** and fight at will.
Is it my fault? That I love to be wicked?
Letting my “id” run rampant with immorality,
the weight of the bags –Droplets of fatigue.
So when the moon rises,
don’t look for me, I won’t be home.
Because the man with no dreams,
Must turn his reality into one.