The white ceiling has been in my sight
for so long that my open eyes
have turned black.
My skull has lain motionless on the carpeted floor
since the dawn rose bloomed in my window.
The walls have no ideas hanging on hooks,
similar to the walls of my mind.
There are times when my eyes are open
but they cannot tell if they are awake or living
in a monotone daydream.
Drums are present to the ear,
but there is no beating rhythm to be felt.
As the light now slowly drifts off to sleep
the dull ache creeps into my unused brain,
and the black in my eyes becomes real.
So bored that every sense of reality has gone numb.