.ifyoucanseethis.
[I'm not dreaming]


I don't dream in technicolor
because I like my rain to be the same grey
as what seeps from me when I bleed.
so at least a tiny. little. part of me.
will feel like it's- somehow
sent from above.

and I sleep in metaphor.
scribbling my messages on bathroom stalls
so that the walls will scream.
my meaning and I live in voids and venues
of pointless and poignant. freedom
is born of black on white.
as I speak graffiti-esque. like pen.stained
romances. on the back of.
old text books.

dirty.tile masterpieces
and felt tip to skin. I like to bleed ink
as black as my eyes in a silent movie.
mouthing words with fingers that speak louder.
than the shaking of my hands.
when the cigarettes calm everything but my nerves.

and I watch the rain coming down.
slight.splashes- painting the cement in ways
I could only dream. I spell out oblivion with candy.
apple greys and neon whites.
spilling lies like dried out markers
touching the panels of some forgotten building.
and I scream in broken hues.
as if my eyes were closed.


I live in fading romance.
where broken hearts look like split rocks.
and I'm left wondering what happened.
to my orange sunsets.

sometimes.
dreams. aren't all they're
cracked up to be.

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