Flash Fiction & Poetry
Awake
Awake in this dream,
Try to recreate the nite,
specialists pigeonhole my fright.
“It’s a disorder,” they cry.
Awake in this dream,
Reoccurring dream every nite,
pistol to my head, no witness in sight.
“It’s a disorder,” they cry.
Awake in this dream,
Metal is frigid on my skin,
maybe these idiots should experience that feeling.
“He’s the murderer,” they holler as the handcuffs suffocate my juvenile wrists.
Awake in this reality,
Bused to an asylum,
pissed stained sheets and no carpets.
Food tastes like mildew mixed with diaper shit,
assholes in uniforms shout orders and insults.
Counseling makes me insane, so maybe they’re right.
Awake in this reality,
Thought it was another lucid dream,
a revolver pointed at my youthful skull.
Had to shoot first,
wanted my Pumas and Starter jacket.
Pulled my piece and forty ounces of led pierced his heart,
followed by sirens and numb limbs.
Awake in this reality,
No letters, no visits,
segregated from society.
Dreams are reality.
Why did I take his soul?
Now mine will never be saved.
Awake
About the author
i strive for domination through sick hook shots on the court while trying to keep my British Knights clean. you'll notice in my writing that i'm infatuated with gypsy women and carnies. i've often dreamed about traveling with the circus, but their souls were illiterate. and you will soon learn more about k-benzo although i haven't wrote in about a year, i'll be posting some old favorites from my bloomington travels.
| Print article | This entry was posted by Kent Lucas on October 25, 2009 at 4:15 pm, and is filed under Uncategorized. Follow any responses to this post through RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback from your own site. |
