Falling out
without a doubt.
Falling in through
the world of sin.
Past the Heavens
whose numbers come in sevens.
Spinning in space
to another place.
A destination
of my creation.
Fiction mixed with reality,
so wild is the individuality.
No common sense
just a broke down fence.
Everything unleashed or twisted.
All experiences enlisted.
Some of them are great dreams,
others are filled with screams.
Most are unreal.
Some have people with faces to peel,
men with pumpkin heads,
or quicksand disguised as beds.
Many contain loved ones.
All are daughters and sons.
A lot are somehow lost
at a terrible cost,
because fears are preyed upon
before the approaching dawn.
Happiness is taken into account
and can mean a great amount.
Within my imagination
comes some obligation.
If my imagination was squashed
then my dreams would be washed.
The washing would make them ordinarily boring
not wild, creative, and restoring.
I awaken in my bed
with something dead.
cut from my life.
Where's the knife?
Where's the excitement?
Can i get some enlightenment
or do I have to now create the unimaginable?
Does putting effort in make fiction knowledgeable?
I want everything involuntarily twirled
I wish to go back to that dreamworld.