Every morning I rise
6 am, almost like my body
Was in tune with the sun
No words said, just blinks and slow Movements
As I log the smell of my breath
In and out of memory
Soggy blunts, cheerios, and cigarette Smoke
Ironically these things seem
Fresh
To me
Adjusting to the beams
And shadows casted by the blinds
A blurred portrait of my face
Reflects off
The burnt out 5 dollar desk lamp
This is the first time
I'm reminded of you.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
It's currently 4am,
the time when words like
night and morning
are mistaken...
for it is both, yet
neither.
tired moths fly
rythmatically
into the bug zapper.
souls escaping their bodies,
stale light
absorbing their souls.
their bodies fall
painting meaningless
obscenities in the smoke left behind.
corpses covered by dirt...
the grass weeps for thee.
bodies hallow
lifeless...
empty
I am empty...
void of social
dependence,
but full of understanding.
understanding
my pulse is still rapid.
if only I were tired
what an overlooked
luxury?
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC