listen closely for the breaking of my idealistic heart.
the dreams are the same and my jacket is covered in dust. hanging my hat on the rack and my head on the desk [begin internalizing a reality which may never be]
just 3 more shots and i can start calling the floor “home”
to whom it may concern: my thoughts are my own, but my words are yours.
the static from the television politely drowns out the screams while shining light on the shadows that have gathered to witness the impromptu disintegration.