The Living versus Dreaming

The walls are cracking as the paint is peeling
little chips lead infected with hints of madness
scatter the warped and wooden floor
like the bloodied bodies of fallen comrades
at war, and I’m left trapped and tapping my toe
rocking in a stationary chair screaming
in a helpless drone hoping that
this month
will soon be over.

Ok,ok, ok, I’ll stop my over exaggerating,
my ill-conceived tempts of embellishment
and poetics, but
I am certain that I’m falling closer
to an uncertain madness. I miss you,
that’s the certainty.

Your voice, though not forgotten,
only echoes through memory weaved
imagination and late night dream sequences
your laugh, only a vivid ghost,
rests on my mental visions porch step,
thank God for all the past jokes and
captured giggles, but they seem
not to be enough, a tease, an addiction,
a simple sip of water, for the
dehydrated. I miss you, memories and
self-written text are not

Yes, my sanity seems to be growing thin (I know
I know, I’ve said this all way too much.)
Will I fall for fate of self-directed murmurs
and wild thrashing and uncontrollable temptations
towards the dangerous and crude? It’s possible, but
highly improbable. (There’s more chance of
Eros’s misguided arrows being real.) No, the sanity
I’m claiming is the guide light, that dotted line, I’m suppose
to follow, but instead I ignore and continue sleeping.
Day in and night out my eyes are closed grasping
hold to what ever ghost wisp through
my synaptic impulses from which Morpheus scribed,
dreams of fictional fantasies like

long walks, donuts, Florida
Late nights, hidden tickles,
unavoidable giggles, and even talk
of Pluto, teddies, and puppies too.

Alone at home, left as one
man laying in a solemn bed, I awake
only to remember dreams aren’t
suppose to be better
than reality, even though right now, undoubtedly,
they seem to be. I miss you. When
dreams out way the presence of happiness
in current existence, that’s when there’s
a simple flag waving up in the air. I surrender
Apollo, you can start moving the sun and day
a little quicker because I’m sick and tired
of being under utilized, over slept, and
in turn excessively tired. I’m left feeding off
of blissful memories, but please, don’t
let them be the lone life source that keeps me
surviving,writing (basically the same thing).

Only so much reflection on your satin hair, you angelic
warmth of personal glow, and your other
countless “Princess” compilations
can push me to write so much (even Orpheus
had to live in order to write), but life
flesh, blood, bones, and spoken words which carry the
personality and keystone presence is a far better
lover and a muse than those
synapses firing off  fantastic,
albeit fictitious,


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