Anthology of dreams (drownedinwords) wrote, @ 2004-11-12 12:10:00

Doing It In Reverse

So you wake up one morning
And its raining
And the room smells so old
That you can hardly believe you're still to see your third decade.

You're worn out
And beaten down
To some compliant shape
Which fits neatly between all the components of a day.

And you slide so easily into the routines
That you have to wonder where the anarchist went.
The one who scribbled byron onto the windows of buses
And chose the seeds of life
Over strings of thoughtless numbers.

Cause you were you back then.
You were real, and knew what pain was.
Now all you know is the grey inbetween
The mornings and the regular deaths.
Between the coffee and the lack of sleep.

Lying there in your own rich warmth
Which catches you in the night
Covers you like the life in the bottom
Of an old glass

You start to dream
Of never having given up your marker pens
And your loud music
Of never having filled in all the forms
Or accepted their dowries.