My subconscious
is a blood red crayon,
and I scribble like
a two year old
over everything that
makes me nervous
makes me angry
makes me sad -
And You may see this picture
as a work of art -
but believe me when I say
that I can't concentrate anymore-
And they can't stop
the questions from coming -
though all I hear today
is the bleating of sheep...
I wanted to be thought of,
just not idolized...
I prefer my tragedy
with eggs and toast -
and when I get up from this table
I will be fulfilled- though this
cup of lies that calls itself
caffeine has left me guessing at
the fortitude of early morning dreams...
And the next time
I take this journey to the end,
I will again be filled with
a maddening suspicion
that I've been here before -
and though I may not recognize
your face in the mirror,
I'm sure that I will stop
to say hello.
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