A man lies in his bed in a room with no door
He waits, hoping for a presence or something, anything to enter
After spending half his life searching
He still felt as blank as the ceiling at which he stared
He is alive, but feels absolutely nothing, so is he?
When he was six, he believed that the moon overhead followed him
By nine, he deciphered the illusion, trading magic for fact, no trade-backs
So this is what it's like to be an adult?
If he only knew now what he knew then
I'm open
Come in
I'm open
Come in
Lying sideways atop crumpled sheets and no covers
He decides to dream...Dream up a new self...For himself
4 comments:
Did you write that Geronimo? It's good. Sad though.
waaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
I am crying and whining and squirming
you will be famous for your sadsack poetry one day, but in order for that to happen, you must never be happy, for if you reach the state of happiness, the state troopers will pull you over and arrest you and deport you saying "it's for your own good boy and it hurrts me much more than it hurts you"
that is analogous to your poetry, it hurts me more than it hurt you waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
waaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
I am crying and whining and squirming
you will be famous for your sadsack poetry one day, but in order for that to happen, you must never be happy, for if you reach the state of happiness, the state troopers will pull you over and arrest you and deport you saying "it's for your own good boy and it hurrts me much more than it hurts you"
that is analogous to your poetry, it hurts me more than it hurt you waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
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