Dreamworld

Falling out without a doubt. Falling in through the world of sin. Past the Heavens whose numbers come in sevens. Spinning in space to another place. A destination of my creation. Fiction mixed with reality, so wild is the individuality. No common sense just a broke down fence. Everything unleashed or twisted. All experiences enlisted. Some of them are great dreams, others are filled with screams. Most are unreal. Some have people with faces to peel, men with pumpkin heads, or quicksand disguised as beds. Many contain loved ones. All are daughters and sons. A lot are somehow lost at a terrible cost, because fears are preyed upon before the approaching dawn. Happiness is taken into account and can mean a great amount. Within my imagination comes some obligation. If my imagination was squashed then my dreams would be washed. The washing would make them ordinarily boring not wild, creative, and restoring. I awaken in my bed with something dead. cut from my life. Where's the knife? Where's the excitement? Can i get some enlightenment or do I have to now create the unimaginable? Does putting effort in make fiction knowledgeable? I want everything involuntarily twirled I wish to go back to that dreamworld.