If you wake up in the night,
in a pool of sugar sweat
then baby you know what it feels like
to be in utter love-death.

In the morning, I die a little
as I get dressed in my mind
The afternoon reprieves a little,
as I smile stupidly love blind.

The evening gets a little tricky,
as my hopes get laced with doubt
I shake my head, my hands and body
as I try to shake you out.

Nothing seems to help
as the suns intensify their burn
the ones at the edges of my fingers
that repeatedly refuse to learn.

Logic can get ******,
reason is long out of breath
in trying to keep up
with this feverish love-death.

Sometimes you forget
that the window is
reflective
and you impose yourself
on to the world.
A gentle reminder,
of your own disposition,
and the way that it
escorts the sunlight
to your thoughts.
Your exuberant leaps
of elation
fling the curtains
open wide.
Yet your deep sighs
of exasperation
confuse the image
on both sides.

I see the world the way I see myself
One, simple set of eyes.
Desperately searching for that hope
that tomorrow will defy itself.
That it will bring something else
Other than today.
Much like the rest, I close my eyes
at times,
when the uncertainty seems too much
Or divert my attention away from the sky,
towards the leafy mulch.
I can do it, the game that is.
The slow walk onward to the edge.
I too can march with sturdy shoes,
then swiftly step backwards off the ledge.
At times, when I am feeling particularly lost
I will muster up the desire to take a peak
but the world always waits both eyes wide open
an unwavering stare,
churning within the unfathomable deep.
Muddling, my eyes water - my fists clutching
at my tear soaked chest.
Even death doesn't seem like enough,
for I will not know the truth
even then.

I can't stand this nonsense, this indifference  
this moat around the edge of my sight. My life.
I can't stand this overindulgence,
this unfettered decadence,
while the rest of the world isn't even given the privilege of weeping.
Of sleeping.
Of light.  
Insistingly,
I can't sleep - my dreams too a world without dreams.
An unfiltered montage of my insecurities playing out the reality I feel behind the forced optimism. The fanaticism,
for the smoothly ironed pressed.
Life.
I call out my own name -
behind the darkened and forgotten windowpane,
is the version of myself, angry, lonely and free.
Free of the freedoms that suffocate me.
Apparently I'm free to choose my fate,
my desk, my jacket, my dinner plate.
Yet where is the queue for self-expression?
For social justice? For unadulterated streams?
I am waiting, and getting rather impatient
with this facade
that we call 'the way it is.'

I have mentioned to you so many times, how you fail to see.
Looking between the slithered light, between the sheets - you lie and wait incessantly for permission to live.
It frustrates me to no end how you choose to forsake your strength,
for a couple of nice words from the world
for a couple of smiles from the rest.
Inside your belly, stroms forever brew.
Blowing around your mind to no end.
You contain all the power and glory inside yourself
turning nectar into posiion.
Now you lie there- feeling sorry for yourself
Wallowing in your pathetic trance
Forever using the victim card - to escape what is essentially your mess.
I am sick of dealing with your passivity, your submissive - weakling tune.
I want to shake you, corner you and show my teeth
Until you finally allow your power to come over you,,
You are not sweet - you are not kind - you are not passive and you're most certainly are not blind.
You are a fire living in the dark mind of a frightened sheep.