i am three thirty in the morning as much as "you are not your fucking khakis."
I see you look up at my previously disposable clouds, with their colors, magnified by the dark.
The sun there deafens your eye seight and it makes you blind with your ears.
I am not hear to awaken your screaming skin, or tuck your frightened children in.
Consider your whispering thoughts or comfort your sleeping hearts.
I only rest my head on the window and hold onto the frame. This is my place, and from here i always fall [asleep].
The wind pulls your hair back; i send the little spirits through each strand.
My thoughts run like indians; i dance beside each kindred flame related to the water running.
I am not so far in a dream.
i am in my very own home.
i dance in the kitchen with the blunt between my lips[it brings me back to Neverland]
and my hands, dangerously, carelessly, i'm too asleep to notice
they are catching fire on the stove.
i had the kettle on, i did not burn my fingers purposely.
i do not relax into the scorches.
but i do not wish i could be dreaming.
i do not think of the possibility of not being able to breathe.
Or i haven't in a while.
I see you look up to my understandably abysmal sky,
with its' colors magnificent and afraid of the dark;
the cold there heightens your temper and relaxes your toes and
it makes you grab hold of the inside of your own pockets.
i am here to lay upon your shoulders only air and to revise my own mind.
Created: Jan 18, 2011SchismCynicLaaady Document Media