They put me in a padded room
when I kept insisting what we had
was real.
They injected morphine and sedatives
into my blood stream
and gave me a pillow,
commanding me to rest.
I kept insisting what we had
was real.
Before I drifted off to sleep,
they would always tell me
I was only kidding myself.

They took my dreams and made them into home movies
for the poor and the desperate.
Endless nights of anticipatory one-night-stands and
stars in infinite repetition.
Roads that led nowhere.
Stiff arms in the darkness of the theatre.
Chapped lips during the midnight hour.

I kept insisting what we had
was real.
But they tell me it was not.