Too many nights, I’ve wished myself out of existence
Knowing as insomnia plucks sleep: There are no dreams here–
The dreams come in other’s thoughts, like knives
Hitting nerves that swerve us off the highway,
Over the railing and into the Ohio River,
Where we wake up and find ourselves, alone again
Awoken to new realities where nobody floats but passing fish
Feeding on polluted proteins populated with parasitic plastic,
Mixed with oil that goes down well with our fatty acids,
But then no one would know what you did, and still do;
Walking in your fields of flowers you believe worship you,
Unworthy loves lingering in eluded celibacy, a tripped trap
Collapsing a narcissist exposed as she projects me into her field
Where I become her flower, then his flower, and their flower too
Plucked again and again and again in spite of the changing climate,
Plagued by regrowth in memories that never stop coming–
All I can do is count the petals, fallen from the dead daffodils
Who never knew if they were loved or not, like Narcissus
Torn to despair by the person he wanted, but could never be,
One by one they were all plucked, all the little lost pieces
Growing along with them, always trying to please, a naive soul
Plucked by dogma, truth plucked by lying minds, an identity
Plucked in gas-lit apartments filled with illusory children lost
In plucked dreams penned to poetic pots placed on pedestals,
Desperate for water plucked by thirst and wilting, clipped leaves
Plucked one, by one, by, one, a slow-stirred shaman brews,
Pouring himself down the world’s throat, that vacuous vomit purged
Always, always, always will say more about you than me.
