Tired mind, tired body.
Chaotic desk, chaotic kitchen.
As sleep escapes the eyes,
but not the mind,
dripping ink half conscious,
stalling.
Staying away from the dreams
which bring tomorrow's
cold reality.
Sickness pushing into the mind,
into the body,
with a dusty desk and
haphazard room in the dark.
We go up, we go down,
never to settle
as does the dust
upon our bones.
Misplaced my peace
(of mind)
at my alter of confidence,
and, once again,
exposed my insecurities.

I put blinders on my heart

to keep from bleeding out my mouth

all over the shoes of those too mummified to

feel the souls of their own feet anymore

I have stories in my head.
I have feelings in my heart.
I have songs in my mouth.
But the words don't flow.

I want to write of adventure.
I want to sing of good times.
I want to express how much I love you.
But my mind forms these thoughts too slow.

I want to tell the stories of heroes I've dreamed up.
I want to compose ballads that stick in people's heads.
I want to write of love and life as I've experienced them.
But as I grasp for the words, from my hand they go.

I want to write. I should start today.
But here, in this moment, I don't know what to say.

The muscle squeezes and contracts
So you can only take shallow breaths
Tired and sore
Like strained muscles after a run
You know why?
That's the heart working doubly hard
To keep you alive
When your spirit wants to die