Twisted sheets, mind on stutter
Unable to sort through this midnight clutter
Put it away for tomorrow
But what to do with my gnawing sorrow?
I circle soft blue on color book pages
Hoping the repetition eventually assuages
The raw edged reality of lonely dark hours
Filling the void with Crayola flowers

i stand as close as humanly possible
to the fire for my a c h i n  g      b   o  n e   s
they weep
but no one will be warm enough
not for the lava you made creep down
my cheeks and they
course through my body like wildfire


and i, a decaying forest.
i try my best to be as useful to the soil as physically possible for dead matter.

The typical 2 a.m. poem is messy
because middle of the night thoughts have no structure

The typical 2 a.m. poem is deep
because darkness is perfect for existentialism

The typical 2 a.m. poem is raw
because it's hard to edit when you're tired

This 2 a.m. poem is just another 2 a.m. poem
desperately trying to be unique

the perfect mark
underbelly exposed
a man-sized target
predisposed
be patient must wait
begging teasing tempting
as i draw you closer
to take the bait
what are you searching for i ask?
everything and more you reply
but there is one exclusion
you must believe my lies