1 Flower Coma

As the pages dried out I held my breath, waiting for the dark ink to saturate a black hole in my letter. I desired it to be perfect without this hesitation. For once in my career my desk was averagely neat, with a few specks of white paint, and a few specks of restless nights, it wasn't that bad. Until one night I rested my head on that desk and never woke up again. These dreams I have are inside of a dream and I will never truly become a writer outside of my mind.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

I'll wake up out of this flower coma.