wake up from sleep
and time to dream
of sleeping and a way out
it's a letter or a door
or just a piece of paper
crumpled up and eaten
and you don't care how
just as long as you can
taste it.
        And my words make 
        no sense
as words seldom do
grit my teeth
and hope only for the
      sake of hoping
for the sake of independence
or for nothing
               as everything seems
to look the same                                                                       the same
for the same reasons that they
are different: because reasons 
believe that consistency is a
dirty word.

                            Or at least mistaken for.


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