I sit alone in my apartment, like a moving ornament for the objects that I've collected over the years. Looking, hoping, praying; anything but getting a job because I'm lost inside someone's American dream. I occupy my time writing half-witted truths about how love is most commonly found written on a paper. I stare at electric screens portraying a culture of fools with mouths gaping waiting for the corporate feeding tubes. My friends are all going, either dead or dying to leave. They might just be people who'll occasionally talk to me. And the memory I pursue in my mind is the last that I've kissed. I found she hasn't just left my heart but also my finger tips. I look down the neck of a bottle like the barrel of a gun. When it's time to reload I'll stop to piss out the rust. I sit alone in my apartment like a ghost silhouette for the man that I should be by now. Looking, hoping, praying; anything but getting something accomplished lost inside someone's American dream.