Courageous folks would inch their way
And cross the finish line
Though this, this is my detour
Upon a genius' mind

Subdue the screams of sacrifice.
Bleed out all the pain.
And then the slate is fresh to draw on,
With colors all the same.

We procrastinate in problems
And the mirror image grows.
Like music to the open ears,
Closing eyes and letting go.

Like a soothing little poem,
To recite in daily stress.
And echo off this broken home,
Or write another, at your desk.

It's like the mindlessness of noises,
As you nod and jump around.
To the songs of favorite singers,
Your life is second, under sound.

It's the dreams of seven hours,
Or upon Fridays later on.
Where it comes and goes, and Hell resumes,
Under the scarlet dawn.

Where we never know what happened,
But for the moment wishes bloom.
It needs not money or your teardrops
Or the whitest of the rooms.

It's not remembered and is instant.
I take a breath and recollect.
The journey, mind created,
Can I, tomorrow night, expect?

It does not raise my social status
Or fix my self esteem.
It's this life violently distorted,
While living perfect dreams.
 
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