I remember sitting in bed, as a child
looking up at the ceiling
I couldn’t sleep, of course,
And so set about to thinking
I wondered, what are dreams made of?
Are they stardust and galaxies?
Are they the tendrils of existence
Reaching inwards from eternity?

We talk so much yet we have nothing to say.

As a kid, I never was the type to color in the lines.
I used to wonder, why do the lines even exist?
When these pictures in my head are ripe for harvesting
And I can give the world something it’s never seen before.

Pressure knocks at my door
A clock ticks and demands its due
The lava burns from the floor
But not in a game like it used to.

So little time to figure it all out
So many distractions to prevent success
I’m in a dark forest with no path or route
But this internal fire knows no rest.

Are we like two stars in a constellation
Seeming so close
And making so much sense
Yet in reality
We are separated by lightyears
And shall never meet?
Except, perhaps
In that sacred space
Between dreams and reality
Called hope.

I’ve been worried since I left the womb
Like a schizophrenic on shrooms
Like a hypochondriac on crack
Never shy with the panic attacks;
Internal reality succumbs to psychosis
Dreams destroyed by self-diagnosis.