i am a walking mess, all cigarette smoke and coffee stains

i drool on my pillow, filling my head with fantasies of rich dreams and handsome husbands

i am catastrophic, orbiting constantly in the middle of chaos

turbulence and order, turbulence and order

when the sun awakens the moon i am the shining star, bursting into light before dying quickly

that is how i will end

in with a whimper, out with a bang

the exact opposite of the hollow men

but like the hollow men, i am all eyes and silent words

see nothing

do nothing

speak of nothing

in the end there is only a desire to be young once more, yearn for your youth so you can waste it again and again and again

stuff your jars of change until they spill over the ends, planning trips to places you’ll never see, food you’ll never taste, humans you’ll never touch

what is the point of dreaming? all it is is a dream

in-between the grey border of fantasy and reality

hazy pink skies and frosty green rivers, everything is vivid but nothing is real

nothing is real in the sense that nothing gives you emotion

nothing sparks feeling

there is only a fogginess in your numbed mind, feeling like you are waking from a nap but you are still asleep

turbulence? i am turbulence

i am turmoil and destruction

everything i touch and everywhere i walk i destroy

the magic, “midas” touch

 

but i am also order.

those coffee stains? they wash out

the sun rises and the moon sets, the stars fade and regenerate and i am again something new

the hollow men may be sorrowful and desolate but i am not, i am young and careless

those jars of change? i count them each day, not for trips but for a reminder that everything adds up

the pink skies will return to blue, and the rivers will reflect the change

the wind will pick up and the flowers and bees will carry the scent of change

something new, a chance to smell and taste and touch and feel

i can go out with a whimper but i can also go out with a bang.