Reality
	---Anonymous
One gets tired of the coulds of smoke, 
And eventually the buzz wears thin, 
The chase just isn't the same anymore, 
And sex gets just as grim, 
Too many faces, 
Too little origination, 
The stench of beer ad cologne just isn't the aphrodisiac it once was, 
Yet every night's the same, 
And nothing's gonna change.

A revelation! A promise!
Yet come Friday night
The green light returns and all else is insignificant, 
A dampened cloudy room with music blaring uncontrollably, 
A crowd of girls are huddled in an effort to stay afoor and
Boys boast loudly on how much and how fast and how long
While many couplets have paired of and vanished
But every night's the same, 
And nothing's gonna change.

A rowdy teenager enters the room, 
Beer in hand - haze in eyes, 
He cries out,
"This is what dreams are made of, man!"
No dream of mine,

Reality