Untitled.

A poem for someone who is a dream.

Dear Jesus,
I count only to five..
One Two
One Two Three.
Confusion in numbers is all I see.
Three, Four
Three, Four, Five
This number's the reason as to why I'm alive.
But other than that;
Nothing makes sense, nothing makes sense.
But when I close my eyes the colour's so dense.
I see the unseen, and the sights cause me to redeem
Composure, composure, but my eyes want closur.
Not more exposer, exposer.
My dirty hands and dirty nails cover my face
but nothing prevails.
My face becomes charred and caked
with dirt and with grime
Grim, grim grime that's smudged over time.
But the butterflies having an epileptic fit.
Down in the bottom of this bottomless pit.
I love the incessant movement that I have
Everyday.
In the end, I have the most to say.
And with these numbers I'm soaring away,
Into the sky
until I begin to decay.