Mornings are
the worst. I wake up thinking about you in feverish dream fervor, but my dreams
don't match up with real life because they're just a fantasy fiction of the
mind.
And you live
in reality, when I live in a world where nothing has changed.
Because my rarity
of reality is the whole truth about a fraction of a faction of the lives we
lead or the loves we lead-- on. The way you led me on.
You see, I
live in a love or lust or indescribable feeling inspired hallucination of the
mind which is why my dreams are when I'm happiest. When the real world is gone
and everything is just right, just like it used to be.
It doesn’t
matter that my dreams show me the darkest parts of a soul, of humanity, of death
destruction and chaos and evil erupting behind the facade of a face. A face I
try to make seem belongs in the real world when the real world is where my hellish
delusions get inspiration.
No, because
my dreams also allow me to hold on to a piece of the old life, our old life,
when dreams meant nothing and the real world was the only world that mattered.
When reality
ruled supreme over love induced comas (or is it fear induced paralysis) because
now, the dream is what I strive for:
to sleep is
to love, to wake is to weep, to rise is no longer to shine but to move through
the motions so that love or lust or indescribable feeling will follow in the
small clandestine affairs when you step in front of my mind’s eye: In the
safety of a dark room, on a darker bed, where I lay the darkest contents of my
head.
So here's to
you my drug. Here's to the nothing you left for me when, and to the everything
I've created to keep you flowing through my veins, at any cost, so that
my fix my itch my hit
can be got can be scratched can be took
In the deepest nook of the mind that expands
exponentially, searching for the “we” that used to be, when eyelids fall-
Down.
