night&day.

you can only reside in a singular space,
a neat little square,
for so long before it becomes yours.
perhaps your name isn't plastered on it.
on the front and on the back.
people talk; they know it's yours.
err, they know it's mine.
but what happens when you
soar through the galaxies on this square,
only to realize that it's everything you didn't want?
err, not what you wanted.

when you're peering over the edge,
where the earth meets the heavens,
you have nothing to show but this tiny rectangle.
this thing you've created, because at some point this is
exactly what you said you wanted.
when does it become too late to take it back?

i count the stars as they pass,
dealing their dulled wisdom,
each twinkle a glimpse of the past,
pleading to become one of them,
begging myself to do otherwise.
this is. is this?

when you live on the edge,
walking a thin line between
fantasy and reality,
you can have whichever you want,
but is there ever a choice?
can you really choose?
err, can i really choose?


we are not the same.