a trip into the heart of darkness

i never met god.

i called him once with this wired

telephone andy warhol gave me,

but no one picked up.

maybe he doesn't knows me.

maybe because he died.

i dance the night away

as i calmly wait for the sun roar,

crawling down and roaming,

waiting the breaking dawn,

crying through the endless beaches

and flying above the strong waves.

maybe i am locked in a room

and just

maybe i am locked in my mind,

but i still see it-

the dark mirror on the wall

reflecting the closet.

the beach dwellers live by the side,

a normal family,

three kids,

superficial parents

and a big, fat pitbull.

i loathe in solitude, wasting

the midnight away in the double bed

listening to jazz and writing shitty

poetry, crawling through the tides.

will i be able to make it untill twilight 

to meet the rising sun

and do not

fall asleep?

i guess.