The Lost Poem

I try to write, I try to scream, but these things we fight are behind the scene.
Behind this screen we make with recycled dreams, I found something with a gleam.
It isn't right to say it's finished when it's done, we constantly write while loading a gun.
We'll sit here and wallow until we had our fun, but we'll still feel so hallow when nobody runs.
Behind this screen we built with scraps of dreams of scrap metal and shit fiends,these doors we build can be opened by others.

And when I say I found something I mean it, right?
I'm a painter, a writer who I should know what seeing means even when everything's not.
If I can't reach these foul things I made in my sleep, surely I can help others to reach up?
Maybe even I have fallen, floating too long to realize how to hit rock bottom.
Maybe even worst I'm cursed to float in the vast ocean of lost, across the universe.
Alone with this echoing scream I try to write but I shit on everything.
I'm stuck here with all these discarded things, space debre and words that I can't even read.

We try to find a right, despite all these things, always fighting the good fight behind everything.
Behind this screen we make with recycled dreams, sometimes we find something that gleams.
And the longer I witnessed the darkness I'd become, the closer you became.
I think I felt for a second it wasn't just me floating in space.
A memory maybe, or something more worth remembering.

Surely if these scraps of dreams we make as screens to hide behind can be opened, this shit can be freed?
Surely as far away and unreachable as my inhabitant of life exists can be reached, maybe we aren't as really as far from our dreams.