Acid-laced rusty needles in the corner of a dark room
running out of space to hoard the hoarding stolen from the curb.
Twenty pounds of coke stuffed in books stacked in shelves
lined with thoughts of a million dead poets.
Decaying wood hollow guitar hanging from the ceiling killing itself,
dying music behind the brain-cells of the tone-deaf down-loader.
Paint peeling off walls lined with posters of artists past their prime-or dead;
T.V. tuned to static-black and white rush of colorblind locust on the box.
Sweet smell of weed growing in a pot burning mold cold smoke inhaled by the procrastinator-
-confused in the haze-dazed bloodshot eyes staring into the abyss.
My reality is a dream I dreamt, when I dreamt of dreaming my dreams away.
By: Viraj Belgaonkar