Staring at 65 watts of incandescence fixed upon my wall
The sharp light burning upon the inside of my eyeball
Tattooing itself into a black twisted coil
Punching the pain on through the visual foil
I shift my gaze to the cold floor beside me
The tattoo follows the line of sight blindly
I smile inward upon the mild irony
Of the words picked up in contrived harmony
Much like the days of my life, I suppose
Days spent in calm repose
Plotting acts of dazzling brilliance
Idling moments through patented dalliance
Shifting eyes tired, on to a shiny laptop screen
Waiting for a connection through a electric sheen
Counting off electronic sheep that run across Technicolor plains
as I daydream at night, of walking through acid rains
Am I high or is this a new low?
Contemplation of imponderables should go.
No point in trying to temper a crazed mind.
That insists on being the last of its kind.
For years twenty five, and soon twenty six,
I have always been in a quandary, in a fix.
How can I be unique, just like everyone else?
Even if it is for short incandescent spells?