Dreams the self conscious produce, the uncontrollable.
The desire is of the self to control, the production is of negative effect.
The waking is of want in the dreams that don’t produce nightmares of the demons that haunt the walk you take awake.
The concept of will is our remote oasis in showers of cold like steel and a fire that licks at the heels.
Our adversity is our own doctrine of self hate loaded about with powder spilled in bathrooms and emptied cans built of pyramids.
There is no grabbing at a past littered with future addiction, no hands held to a future littered with doubt, a present littered within a fog.
Reality is skewed in visions of junk food thought hissing from lit screens.
Haunting within our hate we long with ready hands against keys. We objectify our ability. We contemplate our dismissive allies as enemies.
Our cuts scar of hardened flesh, our quests harden from absent minds.
We want more, we live less.