locking myself in under the covers feels liberating, as the universe unfolds within, and the world feels desperate as it always does. scraping off the luxury leftovers off the keyboards of my mind institutions, my fingertips leave smudges on the glassy quick dry top coat lenses. closing my eyes into blindness to feel the edges of this golden cage, gold to display the glossy shimmer of millennial promises, as i puke out free flowing loss after loss into the wide open space. hidden away from the rain, i call out to the sun to shine brighter until the tired, tough flesh burns up in a beautiful, shining little explosion, and we can all hold hands as we watch in awe

the pieces that i have built up; fragments of pictures that make up the whole, staring back at me through the mirror glass with a raised eyebrow; the hole behind it full of visions of fights and bright lights romanticised through the tame curtain that lies on my real nights. waking in bed full of tiredness, still not dirty enough for you, the dreams are small but the images are vivid and high and green, i lie in a sea of crystals filled with smoke, encapsulating stories of war-torn pretty faces; the war that's ravaging through the minds of this generation, at least we're fighting it together, little dreaming tin soldiers

to go, and to come back, and feel home in all the tips of the world that matter; i don't want to say grateful, but days are full of great gestures, maybe it's finally time for heroes, the ones to wear shiny capes and spit in each other's faces. the wide open sea lies next to me as i roam around this tiny bed of visions on a little paper boat, twelve rude boys on the oars, ready to stir, and the wind spits back at me too, into my tired and dirty eyes just before they close to hang back into their space of flickering sunlight.