Sleep-in to dream-in an unordinary wonder of something close to being will power

I fish around for compliments mixed with wayward twats and wishy-washy thoughts about a future I don’t think I believe in.

This is the end of the ending I didn’t make up in my head when I was an adolescent.

Oh fuck, the echo of the ego of these words, the dignity I lost in streaming feelings of worth.

I was trying to be honest with the past for the sake of future births.

But the induced swanker kicked in when I fell overboard into another night job after day job with a beer after beer after beer.

Because I didn’t know how to control my temper and I didn’t care to hold onto “I remember when…”

And at a loss for losing thought… rebelling would be better if I wasn’t always poor.

The talk all up in the city now of how “we know” we are wasting our lives?

Sleep-easies with debit cards that turn to debt and twitter feeds for friends we’ve never met.

And I might be waiting for that special little pill that will take all the truth away and let me lose myself in unwilling pleasure I won’t remember – or care to ever.

But I’m at a loss for lost, and I’m at a found for finding out – the world could have been my everything and I’m shoving health bars in my mouth to compensate for this desolate state.

I don’t want to lie to die inside, I don’t want to love to learn to hate.

I want to keep the glow that hovers over my fingertips – until I loose my sight (or mind), and even then, I want prosthetic eyes to replace past ways and revive my inner humankind.

I wish that human’s twisted motives would be wound into balls and put into incendiaries to melt away manipulation instead of legitimize illogical interpretations.

At least for the time being, I would care to care if it meant I could really be clear about how I feel.

Or else, I’d rather sleep-in to dream-in anything but non-believing.





Michelle Lee Proksell