swimming lightheaded in a sea
of liquid griefdrowner we seem to be
experiencing a dawnbreak soon to be made famous by all three
the books that will never be read
by the eyes inside the back of my already aching head
in which
I am not the end of your rainbow
but more like the stain on your red carpet
in which I am not some sort of insensible undertow
but more like the useless blankets
on something as cold as a deathbed
it is still somewhere deep inside of me
gnawing in a chestpaining mediocrity
those endless sunny nights for none to see
altogether breathgaining in simplicity
in which
I am not your illusion
but just a whisper from a silent crowd
and in which I am not your last confusion
but your black-out