Adam Christopher
Proprietor
I sell my dead dreams to the sleepwalkers who have nothing to offer themselves
Jaded travelers with no hope beating on my door begging for my guidance, again
I sell my recycled pain to the empty and the hungry
They take nothing I say seriously
The only harm I do is to myself
My time is theirs- and I accept their company as payment for my hard earned experience
I don’t judge them
I spend too much time longing for a stronger soul
And wishing for better days
I drink to the clock as it drains my vitality
Blood and water are one in the same here
Neither thicker nor more relevant than the other
All the disguises I have worn lay by my feet on the floor
My babes gather to see my mess
Skinwalker they call me when my back is turned
Still, they clamor for my praise
They need to know my secrets
To know my love
They need to hate me
But they know they exist only because I will it so
Because I wore the masks they needed when they needed them most
Something they were never brave enough to do
Oh, how I love my masks
Each one a painted memory of a visage that sheltered a lost boy
They know not that pain
And so they continue to come to beg
And so I will continue to sell my dead dreams
Pricing each deception in accordance to the weight that piles on my soul each time I let someone else see what really rests behind these bloodshot eyes
Until the starving ones can live off of more than the ambitions they stole from me