Blank Fire

There's something so fascinating and beautiful I feel from the ideas of life and love and being something incredible, that I cannot help but be utterly bored and frustrated by all of the trivial repetitions every sunrise yawns into the mornings. I hate it because there is a voice within me that will not be still.

All along I've felt like an adult guiding a child,

before and now, even.

If I find myself really perplexed with boredom, 

I might imagine you to be real.

Namely the old one.

In the case that I make the mistake

of believing you,

my dreams are of mirrors broken into happy faces

of ridicule.

This show I paid to see

isn't any longer a muse or a joke,

(as if it weren't on myself)

our non-goodbyes make me sick.

You're a goofy thing

but that's only a mask of mine.

I've been had.