somedays i'm more scared
than       the  others

more susceptible to the
diseases of the mind

that lay their bare hands
on my chest and
                     weave it down

hammer on the uncertainty
of the coming morning

meld the steel that dangles
from the ceiling

waiting to pounce at any
suffocating moment of
                          failure and dread

in the dead of the night
when the sun awakens

and ever so suddenly
the moon burst into flames

have all the stars fall in a
fiery ball of madness

circling the streets sniffing
at the despair of the
                            crying children

perching on the threads of
looming crisis of faith and
                            all things miserable

the melancholy of which is
lost on the swaying trees and
                           the singing birds

that is all over the news in
small fine print

while an angry man on the TV screams at people for not paying attention

over and over
again and again; until
it is time for the magic
of make belief:

only if magic was a real thing
so many things would have been
possible

the kind that lives in your
head and prospers in your mind

the kind Charlie Kaufman
knows about.