The conditions are perfect;
unexplained heavy thundery feeling.
Biting nails, picking fingers.
Repetitive movements.
Tossing and turning.
All the ingredients for inner turmoil.
And yet...

**I cant write

A crack on the ceiling.
A line; far from deep.
Its cross-section layered,
Its existence discrete.
Unassuming and simple
in a room bright and plush.
Its existence is futile,
for its fate is the brush.
A restoration of beauty;
appeasing the strain.
Layering and patching
again and again.
As long as the eye
knows not that its weakened,
The flaw will endure,
now perpetual and deepened.
Its a crack on the surface
a line; far from deep.
Take heed of its presence;
but mend whats beneath.

They say she has a
heart of gold.
Perhaps that is why,
when'er she dare show it...
They steal it away.

Whether full or a half
or perhaps a mere crescent.
My eyes open widest
When her light is present.