NyQuil Poem

This is what it seems to be!
when all inflections bury me
engulfed in liquid sleep and stars
my mind scurries through burning hearts

i am tossed about the ground
flurrying on thought and sound
hidden tripping music weaves
a lonely caustic melody.

the words marched on my tongue
and beat a reluctant retreat
for after beating both my lungs
my teeth forced them into defeat.

someday somewhere the words will fare
far better than here they did;
i will not be able to hide in my hair
the love i refuse to admit.



For once, for last

She did not want to talk. 

Her words were sealed and bent away

Chipped and broken, lost. 
She, at last, did not

Desire conversation,

She just wanted an embrace

A warmth

A consolation. 
So the words grew dead, becoming

Hollowness instead. 

silly story

It’s a Tuesday. The bell rings and you make your way to your math class. As you’re walking through the hallways, someone bumps into you, casually enough. They say something to you and begin to walk away. Only after they’re gone do you realize that instead of saying “I’m sorry,” they said “wake up.” Feeling confused and slightly annoyed, you soon forget the incident. After your lunch period is over, someone bumps into you again and scatters your books everywhere. As you gasp in dismay and bend to recover your belongings, you look up at the person. An apologetic look flashes over their face as they exclaim, “you’re in a coma,” and begin to walk away. A mixture of emotions, including frustration and annoyance, fight for dominance inside you. Only when you stand and consider the stranger’s parting words does the earlier incident resurface in your mind. Feeling a cold trickle of some chilling, silly fear, you swallow hard. But soon you shake off the cobwebs and make your way to chemistry. After the last class bell rings, you are rushing through the hallways to the buses when for the third time someone collides with you. This stranger seems aloof, diffident, as they toss four words over their shoulder in an uncaring attempt at an apologetic tone. Four words that make your blood run cold.

“Doctor, she’s not responding.”


What! What is this
What an odd combination
to feel like one’s blood is flaming
But also as if it’s dead?

You live inside me
You hollow the sickness from my bones. I will hold on to you, Star-maker, do not leave inside this cold.

I cannot stop running, yet am so very still
Something is wrong, I am sick, I am ill

Music cannot chase away the tar that is consuming all my blood
I sing like a jester but my eyes are growing dimmer
I am torn apart by the cavernous dark,
And I cannot explain away the echoes that roost inside my heart.

Mid-rhyme, suddenly,
Fancy words desert me
And I crumble like a child.