Remember when I was young,
crammed in a king-sized bed with the four of us like little anchovies or tuna
packed in a can?
Getting my eyes
adjusted and
staring at the ceiling fan,
hoping that my dreams would be real?
Imagining that the little specks and
floating dust that my eyes see are
leading me somewhere even though they're just made up in my head?
Gleaming at the vertical blinds that are
blocking my view from the dark sky,
hiding that beauty that is outside,
covering the
glimmering stars in the starry, starry night?
Going back to the time,
wishing I was still a small child,
tucked in and under the warm bed sheets,
glazing over what can and will be,
counting the stars, not the sheep, like one, two, three...
dreaming to discover a better space,
knowing that my future will unfold,
trusting that I will leave a tale to be told.

Snoozing, dozing, snoring, hearing
through thin plaster
with no soundproof walls,
wailing.

Imagine hearing people behind you
laughing constantly
always wondering
if you have a tail
behind you
and that's why it's so humorous
or maybe I'm a donkey
and they're trying to pin
on me my own humility?

To the kleptomaniac who stole my nights
and the thief that took my days,

you have turned me into an insomniac
who walks around like a living zombie and a maniac.

In my sleep, I think you put me under
ARSENIC
or lulled me to sleep with something
ACIDIC

but how could something taste so bitter?
Unless you tried to get me with something different?

We swim into that dark, murky oil.
In its depths, we see Time.
It fills our lungs and ears.
It covers our bodies like a thick layer.
We are so naked, yet the blackness shields us.
Covers us.
Do not despair.
Let it swallow us whole.
We may be blind but in the space of clarity.
We trudge and trudge,
we fight the drag,
it pulls us away, but alas,
we make our presence here last.

Though we live in the world of that dark, murky oil,
Time is not the enemy.
It is our guidance.

Temper is a madman on the loose.
He's tired of being locked up in prison.
Eventually, he's found, but always looks for the noose.
No one knows why he's jailed, he could be innocent.
He must've killed someone, we assume.
He never confessed or gave a hint.

Temper is a tired man, always hungry for food.
He has the urge to run, but knows he shouldn't.
"When will it end? I don't want to break the rules."
To this day, we know he's out there--
He's within us, and that's the end.