A poem I wrote while peaking on edibles

Do my head dim the light that afternoon gives me? I asked myself

Sickly high on my kitchen counter

Drinking water

But the dim’s that might just be an action of a thought, completely unprovoked, probed.

As I look out the window i don’t see the bright, 

i don’t see the white light, my room is empty and dark even in the afternoon.

Even on a sunny april afternoon. 

This is the past i’m looking into - i tell myself

And I prophesize the thought of an immor(t)al time device, a time machine which must brain will never catch up to.

But as much as I beg and apologise, I’m human, I only see the past, I apologise, I said I want a future.

The future in my head that is beautiful. To be a summer child. To be young and hopefully lonely. Hopefully I pick all the apples of the tree like when I do now even at 6 or 7. Is that a lie just?

I feel bad for myself more often and not, and who could tell? I could be lying out my own ass i could be the feeling of change gripping hard on your throat and the empty laugh in your head when you presume that what you promote is nothing but a wreck. Nothing in a joy, nothing in the joke that what i feel now will be permenent.

I don’t know how to give an accent to ‘don’t love me, please don’t love me’.

The fridge is buzzing so loud and I don’t know if this is all I have got.

I will eventually have to be satisfied with all I’ve got - does it take that long to learn how to learn a shared secret of the middle aged women have not?

I will eventually be the world it’s the matter of terms, as sooner or later you’ll become the one that is closer to death than anyone on earth.

I prophesise my love, to sing, to admit. To yourself that you will never see the same world as everyone other me, and you are forever punished to idolise something that you never have.