an empty room
I fill it
With my thoughts.
I get to thinking
About everything.

I stand among many
Receiving awards
Reciting speeches
I must win one every day
And the speeches change,
Like the wind.

There's never
any faces,
Not even
my own
Ain't that strange?

Just the
Splintered visions
Breaking through
With spears
Of emotion.

I guess that
The image
Isn't even important:
It's the feeling,
The sensations,
The prayers,
The mantras,
And endless dreams.

It's an idealistic bubble.
Which I could  
Live in forever,
But I'd never get anything done.

I get to looking
At my watch.
Only thirty minutes
has passed,
How can that
be possible?

I've already travelled
to the serene corners
of my desires.
I've dipped my
toes in lustful wants.
I've soared to
pinnacles of success,
In thirty minutes.

Then the perpetual
Smog of stagnant
English gloom
Returns to me
In my Utopic chamber,
Bursting my bubble.

I hone back
to the moment,
and then I
put my pen
Down to paper.