I don’t have enough fingers
to count all of the times
I have run out of cigarettes
and run out of rhymes
but I keep leading these lines
to golden mines
that I can never fully reach.
You can try to teach
me to mean what I say
but as these summer days
stretch along their way
I am losing patience
and meaning behind my words.
My mind is filled with
flocks of birds
that try to soar beyond my skull
but my head is so full
of thoughts that I worry
that their desires will never be caught.
So I cross my only-qualitative fingers
and hope my vivid dreams
don’t get anymore real
because I’m sick of being forced to feel
these slumber-pampered perceptions;
and out of all of the s****y things
my sleep schedule brings,
you are the only exception.