I tend to lay everyday against the yellowed, tile floor looking up at the textured ceiling that wraps around wood beams. The ceiling looking cracked and fractured like a child's bone laying in a florescent cast. I lay there seeing faces against the platform above like angels looking through a fogged, glass ceiling. Gazing down into a fishbowl called reality. I wonder if they ever question what really happens down here. What really tends to grow.

A cool rag placed against a heated forehead, wondering if heaven exists - how long we are left to sleep. Someday we'll know.

Someday we'll know,

I wake up to shadows
My body unable to move
Panic begins to set in
These visions inhuman

My eyes are barely open
I can see them moving
I'm awake it seems
Yet I'm still in a dream

The shadows move closer
They shift and whisper
I wonder what they say
As I panic where I lay

Here I realize something
How good it feels to choose
What happens around me
And how I shape my reality

Lay with me,
Sweet Poetry.

I prostrate myself
atop your holy temple,
amassing desperate yearning kisses
down your strong-legged pillars.

Weaving in and out of your corridors,
through the garden, your hair falling around me
like roots, like falling leaves--

But I dare not enter your hallowed chambers.

I am a ******, Sweet Poetry.

I have sauntered through the courtyard,
never the courts,
I have tread in the waters of your fountain,
never submerged in your bath,
I've danced around the holy fire,
but never touched my flesh to the healing flame.

Are the walls to your inner sanctum made of concrete,
or something impalpable?
My mind can play ***** tricks,
flagellating a million reasons why our love is for naught,
and why my body should shrivel and fade away before you.

I am a ******, Poetry,
and what love and demons I have in reserve,
I lay at your feet.

I'll linger if you'll stay,
sleeping sound at your side,
your breath on my skin,
your body warm against my shivering frame.

Pluck the maiden fruit from my aching tree,
lay with me,
Sweet Poetry.

Every morning at the same time
Get up and do your business
Business can be business or a combination of one and two
It involves paperwork and need not be in triplets
Try not to push too hard, lest you become: Stressed
Smell the coffee brewing as it lingers like gym sweat
Read the rags as they’re piled high. You really need to discard the old.
Did you remember to wash your hands and disavow
The pipes clang and rattle as the tap is closed
It reminds you of the 2009 Earthquakes that brought utter destruction to your life
Furloughs, pay cuts, layoffs, and lost dreams
How times have changed in seven short years
Every morning at the same time
Same **** different days

The warmth came to you one day
And it really wanted to stay
But you pushed it away
You where to use to the gray
There was nothing the warmth could say
To make you even a little bit sway
So it tried to spread a warming ray
But you looked at in disgust and let it lay
And so it simply, painfully and slowly decayed

It's Sunday morning
I'm in mourning
My "give a ****" died last night
Amongst your words "you're just a blight"
You said it, not in anger
But with the disconnect of a stranger

.........SO.........

I no longer give a ****
Killed with your hit
I'll just lay
I'll just decay
I no longer give a ****
I'll never again throw a fit
Pushed to far
Drowning in tar
I no longer give a ****
My heart you just ripped
Casted aside
Feelings died
I no longer give a ****
Your love was counterfeit