I have never dreamed of growing old and wrinkly
Instead I dream of being chased,
or taunted,
or killed.
But of course, not really killed
because even our subconscious believes we are invincible.
We always wake up before all our blood drains
before we reach that dim light up ahead
it's just like hope to always sustain.
He was fifteen months and twenty-eight days of nightmares.
Night terrors and drifty day dreams
that drug me from conversations and straight into his grasp.
When I was finally shaken awake
it was just after my limbs were severed
but just before I bled out;
you know, that barely lucid state of being.
My brain was ready to give up on me,
no longer interjecting.
Self-preservation doesn't mean much to a placement
All it knows is being spilled on and cleaned back up
I am a yes man and an idea machine
I am constant and reliable
but I am not there
I am not anywhere at all
except floating above, watching,
wishing things were different
and that for once I would dream of growing old and wrinkly.
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