by jamescarman

The ink from my eyes
paints the picture
on broken glass
where the smile stretches
far beyond my sight,
far beyond ever reaching
anything in my given path,
where I stagger with brittle
footsteps – inching my way
to somewhere I think is home.

“but home is here”
“no, please no”
why, this place is my coffin
and the air is contaminated
with hate.
People here enjoy the smashing
of each other,
and there is no love.

I’ll drink to that,
with regret.
“ah but this is good for
“taste this poison,
sip with joy
and forget,

When we wake, with clouded skies
which aren’t the natural ones,
and we rise with clouded minds
in this place
we consider our
and i ask,
“am I real?”