You’ll become a poet of habit
A Monday’s offer in the supermarket
Your words will sell themselves
To feed the overfed
Alas
You don’t like the idea
Yet
You’re consumed by it.

if
     everything()    
     you can imagine
     is real
then
     everythingreal()
     is imagined
and
     who is
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when you sleep it's like you never cried,

breathing soft and steady, wet cheeks dried.



when you sleep it's like you never lost,

boundaries weren't broken and lines weren't crossed.



when you sleep it's like you're still there,

and you still smile and you still care.



when you sleep you look young as I,

no crease in your brow and no old worn sigh.



and so if sleep is death just being shy,

is it still so wrong,

to wish

to die?