Do you know what it feels like to see
with light bulbs, glass stars, for eyes, do you?
I burn broken constellations as dreams
because keeping my head down in regression
is easier than allowing ambitions to constantly
light up the filaments in my eyes, letting people
in only to never truly open up. Love at first sight
is beautiful because you can’t find it once the light
runs away with fear and insanity in vanity is the
highlight of youth, courting the rebels to their last
dances before addictions cage them in sunrises.
Soul mates are the epitome of nostalgia; how else
would you explain the longing you feel for the one
you love even when you’ve never met, feeling the
synchronization thunder in your mind like missiles?
You start wondering why wandering is so broken but
liberating, much like a prison with the atmospheric
pressure as walls and meteors shower in my heart
with the flow of unnamed passion in the arteries,
lust for love whispering seductively for no inhibitions.
When night brews its magic in my eyes, I turn myself
in and dose off in a trance fueled with nicotine and
caffeine, with a flashlight in my numb hands for guidance
because you don’t know, you don’t know how it feels
to have broken shards of light bulbs with fried filaments
as eyes, the mind the switch, binding them in hibernation.