A Perfect World

I was dreaming of dying again.
on a comfortable couch
in some therapist's room.
The breath I draw from within,
lie red bricks colliding into each other.
The snapping sound of failed foundations
and broken dreams that smash together.
Like a thunderous applause to my doom
I freefall down into a cesspool
broken, defeated and utterly destroyed.
My therapist calls it a tired and lonely heart,
just a process that everyone can overcome.
I am the fool
if I don't think it's death
kicking down the walls and doors
of my weary soul.

I don't think she knows
just how close I am to dying
because she thinks I relate to the world.
That I somehow like
the neutral colors painted
on her office walls.

That I enjoy seeing the impressionism
of badly painted horizons
that suppose to be an image of happiness.
I look around and see colors, pictures, people,
a degree I can use and a wife I can come home to,
a family that I can start,
comfortable views and peaceful lighting;
A perfect world in her office
designed to heal my heart
and make me happy inside.

Today, as I sit down on her
comfortable couch,
my tired eyes stare into all
the things I can't relate.
What an hours worth of our time
that can never reveal,
Is that I am perfectly content,
anxious, and ready to lie down and die.

Then I woke up.