No one had told me that dreams were art,
Red paint and ivy,
Blue flowers and black ink,
They all came into my nights,
There is beauty in transience,
And in eternal blinks,
I dump it all on the canvas,
Begging the beauty not to abandon me,
It seems I didn’t need to be told.
Do we have access to the lines we wrote before?
In the wired, slimy organ inside my skull, words float,
Using electric freeways to interact with one another,
As numerous and grandiose as the galaxy itself.
I know. I know, I’m wasting time,
But I can’t help myself, I want to avoid reality.
But for me, what is the reality?
Forgive me, I already read the last page-
Of all books