#dreamcoreish

I haven’t been there in years,

But I’m back every night,

Back to my home,

When I turn off the light.

Right back before everything seemed to go wrong.

Exactly how I used to remember it,

Even though it’s been so long.

There’s a screen in the door,

There’s mold in the walls,

There’s a lobster in the tub,

A man in the hall,

And though I’m pretty sure I’m not really there,

I’m perfectly content here,

Only sorta kind of aware.

Times been smeared,

So have the years,

And so have my hopes and my dreams and my fears,

And though I know this kind of place, it just ain’t for real.

It’s the only place I want to be,

Don’t you know how that feels?

It’s been so long,

Since I’ve been passed through this door,

This Blockbuster video, I wonder what for?

And suddenly I notice there’s nothing at all on the walls,

It makes all sorts of sense though it doesn’t make no sense at all.

I’m feeling so strange,

I’m feeling so scared,

I’m feeling quite glad,

I feel so prepared,

Because I feel like I’m being sent to start it all over again;

Back to my old life, where I can do things right this time by my friends.

I rustle the sheets,

I squirm in my sleep,

I yawn and I nod and I cry and I weep,

When I yearn for a kind of place that I’ve never been.

Though I know that I’ve been there,

I just can’t quite remember when.

Time is smeared,

So are the years,

And so are my dreams and my hopes and my fears,

And though I know that nostalgia is a hell of a Sirens call,

I’d rather have some of it or all of it than none of it at all.

I’m back in my school,

Still playing the fool,

Late for the bus,

Ain’t I such a tool?

I go to call my mother up for a ride,

But I get no response,

I guess I’ll just have to walk,

It’ll be a few months.

I see friends I don’t remember,

Faces fade without a trace,

Places with no names,

Names with no place,

And though I trot, and I tread, and I walk, and I run,

I can never escape my oldest enemy,

The ever dawning sun.

Time smears,

So do the years,

So does my vision as I wipe back the tears,

And stare at the ceiling as I try to retrace my steps,

Every days morning, it’s mourning,