Boys In the Attic

Things left to be dreamt
Envision purpose that I never meant
Plans problicate
Dreams you’ll never see
I feel them divide
Into fluids to hold my open stare in place
And maybe let it stew or set in this jar
Or on my neck or to collect dust in the attic
I’m feeling more depressed than I did the other day
Shell out the compliments man
Or spread them over the entire tiering cake
Or do me the favor of sparing me of my own private pyrite pity party
Cause this bed pan produces only what smells of mommy’s little rotting vegetable
Cage yourself in
To make you feel at home
Your home is where your head is