Do you have any idea what it is to feel these words?
To claw them out of me, snapped and bleeding, in an attempt to feel less? In a desperate hope
to end this scattered wretched lonely
Do you know what it is
To feel the words come slicing through
To actually feel the cinders in you
And to be wary of their power?
What you read from me is not merely pretty sashaying sounds strung together to twirl their syllables through the night
My words are a fight
And they shriek from within
Desperate to touch the far-flung sides of endless light
Desirous of all that is more
Than the tattered words I have
Clicking and stabbing and clanking and rolling and twitching around
More happy, healthy
Because the words don’t flow?
I did not intend
To mend distress
Where rhymes cannot reap or sow —
Yet words have not come to me
As softly, as necessary as breath
Since days before the breaking-storm
That scissored my aching chest.
it is a vicious cycle
I take a nap
I cannot sleep til late;
I wake, exhausted and irate.
I, dreary and weary, trudge through the day
a cat nap
Afore the sun falls away.
Muscles shriek in exquisite
Agony; as they bend
Nothing feels quite so good
As stretching out your ligaments.
Tendons, bones a-clicking
Sheaths of filament straining;
Bones covered in
Windy minds weighed down by bricks
Fall asleep in soft distress.
“Thank you for the hours,”
I say, as we traipse among the flowers
“Thank you for the days,”
I whisper, freeing my heart from its cage.
I. Cannot sleep
My mind instead repeats
Every memory I wish to delete
Help me call the slumberfan,
The silky nightwatching sandyman.
Instead my crawling heart decides
To loudly and rapidly beat.