boîte brioche chapeau cloche

We've learned to put dreams into boxes
"I love you"'s into less than three words
Our ambitions--half-read and half-imagined
Responding like time-warps
Taking nouns with meaning and "verbing" them
Exactly
Outdated synonym books sit four feet from our fingertips
Calling out to bud-deafened ears
We can't talk
Can't remember
Can't single-handedly discover
Mundane letters, shocking our lost poets
Slipping feelings in between casual vibrations
We are the essential bifurcated man
Focus-shot, with a curtain call at every drama
Originality is wasted like half hour personal rains
The squares in our hands have stolen who we are
Our identities; littered with pseudonyms and
Sky-reaching wide eyes outlined in demise
Shall we not scream in fear at the trample of inspiration
Shout in the painful recognition of depleting beauty
Cry in the streets of tossed out creativity
Curse into the very face of the one who captured our minds
And never gave them back
These fleeting awakenings are contagious