Block

Break through, she said.
I’m waiting for the break through.
Third story light hums like the tides
I’m a warped ceiling, see,
the incamdescents are stuck shiny
in plastic waves or else
I’d answer to the bookshelves
again above my head. I’m carpeted, too
I just don’t know it yet
until I shut my eyes in the dark.

What a pitiful color
manufactured. beige, off-white, tan
It’s the color of indulgent boredom
feigning intetest in all the unexplored
eyelids.
It’s like closing a book after chapter 1.
Or maybe before that.
you know the story ends
except for crutch of surprise
you’re out of this place
again.
I’m waiting for the break through.
I’m waiting for the break through.
I’m waiting for the moon
and the clean morning,
Hiding from what they say again.

But why
Again and again and now
we practice pleasing the sun?
It’s alright, as long as
you think like that I’m waiting
for the break
through.

After all, the grass is always
greener in the day.

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