Lying Dead In the Womb

My days fly by unsuccessfully.
An hour means nothing but sixty minutes of time.
I see naught but the vanishing sun and the mountains of black beyond.
And when the morning comes a calling I cry.
I can imagine a life so deliriously intense it burns it's memories into my brain,
But then the real rain pours down and extinguishes my flame.
Leaving me with socks that wont dry out and ordinary Tuesdays.
A life run by other's demands and my own dismay.
I can't network
Nor improve my net worth
The life I dream about can't be found in a bank account.
It can't be borrowed, bought, stolen or drawn.
Maybe it can't be found at all.
But I'm dreaming that I'm dreaming because, for now, it's all that I have got.