Dreams.

Saturday nights, I am alone in my room,
Leafing through an old copy of Times magazine
From a few years ago.
I am miserable again, miserable in a way that

I cannot remember anymore than yesterday,
Or the one before; clouds form outside my window,
I see yesterday has come again. I cannot think,
Cannot dream, cannot move; my heart is a

Shadow that comes before me, my heart beats in rhythm
Like a glass drum. I am not a singer; I am not a criminal;
I am something that I cannot quite explain,
An excuse in genetic code.

Who gave me these things, that I cannot quite remember?
Who gave me these things, the potted plant in
The corner of my living room?
I bought those things with the coins from my purse,

Which I bought used at a garage sale.
Monday roles back again; time moves forward;
The heart does not beat, I cannot seem to wake myself
From the depths of my dreams.

Untitled.

Clouds blink against angry rain that washes down
streams and picks apart the moon that shimy-shamy
smiles down at me-

my thoughts glare at me from down spirals and shadows
pierce through a veil of stars and I am, I am
reason that remains hidden within a veil a seed of

destruction. I am not nothing. I am not anything
that I can see, I speak to you from times unknown,
reasons that are not meant to be.

We are wrapped in misery. We are wrapped in darkness,
I speak of sadness, gladness, words that are not mine.
You think I care but I don't care. You think I can't see but I can see.