Dreams are the royal road to the unconscious.
--Sigmund Freud*

She slams the door.
Refuses to open it.
My fists makes contact,
over, over, over again,
harder, harder, harder again.
"I just wanted you tell me
that everything will be okay.
That's all I ever wanted."*
She remained silent.

We all have that one movie.
The one we re-watch avidly.
The one where the protagonist
reminds us of our underdog selves.
Or at least the struggles
of waking up in the morning
without falling off the bed.

The clock flashes midnight,
reminds us that we have school
or wherever tomorrow. Yet,
we are engrossed spectators
captivated yet fearful
spectators to our hero's moment
of metaphorically hanging
off a metaphorical cliff.

We dismiss the clock and its
fallical midnight sign,
ignore the super-ego--
we have enough on our plates
from our actual parents
who expect too much
of underdeveloped minds
which are latched onto pleasure--
and continue watching our movie,
hoping that our hero
makes it out alive,
or at least does not fall off
the bed in the morning.

In the first grade I proclaimed loyalty to the art of writing.
In the Fifth Grade I inked my hands permanently with poetry.

Soon it became a habit, a habit I could not kick, like being addicted to cigarettes

Riding on the back of a super nova
into your blackhole of paradise
a ticket to Mars with Jupiter rising
Saturns rings engulf me into a star lit abyss
orbiting Uranus in a stellar galactic trist
my rocket ship glows in unquenchable fire
riding to Andromeda on the back of ecstatic bliss
exploding in a meteor shower, sealed with a kiss.

You order two books off of Barnes and Noble
And perpetually wait by the porch
Every day to glimpse the mail carrier’s hands.
Anxiety settles upon your shoulders
Like the world on Atlas’s but because you believe
Carrying anxiety is not as intense
As carrying the world you shrug it off
But secretly, behind closed doors, your heart is biting its nails
Faster than it can pump blood
Because the world must not know what you are waiting for
Especially your parents for if they caught wind of it
You believe in your very core that they will douse them in gasoline
And ask you “at what temperature do books burn”
Before dropping a lit match onto the only security you have ever known.