they say you should plant a seed
a seed of love and passion,
leave something growing after you


what can i plant
in scorched barren land?


that is what was left of my soul.

i am sure
i can do nothing.
i am so sorry.
i cannot be normal.
i cannot grow anything.


I
AM
SO
DONE

Visions of cornea, the sin etched into blank husks.
Concoction: of-the-brain bouts of ephemeral greed
Once more printed 'pon cornea-husk—
These are the ******* Imprints!
The rancid souls of subterranean devils,
Gaping, flat-footed, throughout the course of time.
The memorandum of a navigation substance
Used during rituals for the ascension of the dead;
An imprintation upon the dark entrance void,
Interlocking the locations of blasphemous dread.

my grandmother unscrewed
the door to my room
and removed the carpet from my floor

in the winter months
my toes went white and my fingertips hued blue
my lips marred red as i looked to the ceiling
and pondered my importance in this reality

i went to sleep that night and had a dream
i thought was so clever
in this dream i said: 'Roses are sometimes red, and violets
are rarely blue'.
Somebody hand me a Pulitzer this instant

in hindsight, my dreams were foretelling
as i awoke in the hospital with a headache
and diagnosis of hypothermia
the nurses and social workers sat in chairs
with my grandmother beside them  

i closed my eyes and visualized all the
yellow roses and white violets often overlooked
and with a few smiles
and words of affirmations to the guests judging my performance
I received a standing ovation
of vibrant violets and beautiful deep reds thrown on stage
and returned to the Tiled Floors.

What-if-that-dream-we-
had-where-we-are-all-
fall-
ing-
is-
sim-
­ply-
the-
coll-
ect-
ive-
sub-
con-
sci-
ous-
of-
our-
**-
me-
pl­a-
net-
call-
ing?
The
lad-
der-
to-
cli-
mb-
bac-
k-up-
see-
ms-­
to-
go-
on-
for-
ever-
and-
the-
clo-
ck-
at-
the-top-keeps-on-
­striking-ten-past-never.

© poormansdreams

A space-age fortress of glitzy build
stands empty. It had once been filled
with shining futures of tinsel, milled
of bronze for a time that all would thrill.

How empty the future past now seems
behind the glass of wasted dreams:
Once polished steel now dimly gleams
and old high tech lies there unredeemed.

Its giant clock now standing still,
the hands unmoving, like hopes that will
remain as frozen in amber that’s filled
with flies of dreams: placebo pills.

You fall from grace
my dear Icarus
why must you be so
foolish.

you fly too close and you fall
with splash and then a gurgle
you sink in the blue despair
your feathers wet.

no dreams or hope
you have no flight
forever drowned in
deep blue despair.

my poor poor boy
my poor Icarus
forever lost in
his blue despair.

flying
higher
and
higher
floating
fluttering
above the world
then
torn down
by reality
but this time
i'll never
wake
up