How much time do you spend on dreams?
I’ve been sleeping away my whole life, so it seems
In the journal that I write there are reams and reams and reams
So great the pile of how things stack
sometimes I dream it’s the dream I lack
I want it back, can I take it back
Can you steer for a while as I get off track?

Why does it hurt like a shark, a tack
Pinning a story on a magnet door,
When they wont hear the meaning of a single word?
What is this strange attraction for?

This obession,
that I’m feeding the pages
This depression
proceeding the rages
like preening a rose in a spot of light,
living and dying in stages
This impression
of a man in my bed
that I’ve left here in stead
the remains, when I’m dead
Like a single dimension
Do I get an opinion?
What will be their retention?
like, do I have dominion
or merely a mention?
A mansion or a pauper’s hovel?
Will I be the prose?
Am I that kind of novel?




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