I can’t sleep
Again.
How original…an artist with insomnia…or so I presume
Sleep by closing eyes
Let your
mind drift
but
the noises shoot your swollen lids open and we’re back to
SQUARE ONE.
At least I get a mediocre poem out of it.
Continued counting of sheep but their wool turns to cotton
And
The bahs turn to words spoken three days ago in a coffee shop at 8:27 pm with a friend you hadn’t seen in three weeks
And you
Wonder, why  you can’t be there now instead of…Oh
It’s 3:20 a.m.
When did that happen?
Plans of early morning torture are there and you know
If you don’t rest now you’ll be tired all day
VICIOUS CYCLE-
-sleepwhen you don’t want to be tired forever
God, I wish MY  THOUGHTS WOULD SHUT UP
that’s probably why I enjoy the silence
When you don’t let it get a word in during the day, it always wants out at night
I wonder if I’m nocturnal? Science point to otherwise, but I beg to differ.
Xoxo turns to ** over my eyes because I guess what they say is true….
I can sleep when I’m dead.

Take a picture! It’ll last longer.
No really, come on! Cause while your friends are invested in a feeling of joy masking unrecognizable shallowness
Your focus was on the focus of your shattered iphone 6
But, it’s fine, because if you don’t take a picture it didn’t happen.
Last week, you were right over there,
Passed out on the couch,
And everybody knows it happened.
Because a picture is worth a thousand words
A thousand words you did not speak
A thousand words,
But not one of them sounded like, “No”
A thousand words you’re praying you can white out with a thousand more. So, you’re back at that disgusting house smiling at people who won’t bother to ask your name.
But that’s fine,
Because at least they think you can have a “good time”
Take some candids! No really,
But make sure you know,
Because you would never want them to see that the twinkle in your eye was from the glint off of tears that appeared when the camera was turned.
But as long as you got a good shot.
Too bad that sometimes
The shot of a camera stings worse than that of a gun.

I know how it feels
How it feels when there’s a gremlin gnawing on your side
It sits behind your eyes,
And pushes out tears
It comes from nowhere, and anytime
From the middle of a lecture
To being held in the arms of the one you love
And it’ll push you apart.
And away
Its little claws grasping at invisible threads connected to your mind
While logic cowers in the corner
And you're left alone
There you’ll turn to the one holding you
moments ago
And they’ve turned too
turned away
So you lay in defeat,
letting the gremlin crawl back into your ear
latching back on
this consistency is the only thing coming up clear
draining you more day by day
but you let it
because
control seems better then the inevitability of the water that surrounds you when you take a dip in the deep end
-but othertimes-
when you're feeling braver,
finished submitting to the shallow end
you'll try and settle it down,
or at least help it sleep
meditation
medication
breathing
tea,
but
                                                       ­ these start to ring up useless
hope becomes your ploy
so maybe one day
those bite marks in your side will heal

This gremlin is not biased.
it does not care about race,
or status,
or gender
it has no consistency
it may plague you for weeks on end,
no relief
or room to breathe,
and disappear without a trace for a couple weeks more,
but it always knows the way back
it knows you

This gremlin is inconsiderate.
It does not care of your disposition
towards life
or academics
or your career
It does not care of who you are
and at times it will try to define you
use you against yourself
but just as a tree may lose its leaves,
and blooming flowers
you define yourself from your roots

so sleep tight,
           and settle in,
                    because
although your fight is far from won,
                    you've always got one thing to hold on to,
                    to cling to
                 and coddle in the dark
when the gremlin is quiet and still
dance in the solitude
and laugh
because you are you
and beautiful
down
to
each
and
every
root

Dead,
the day before yesterday.
Grieved by it, personally,
Reputation: few or no friends
Suggested art - lost its erratic stars
A dreamer! Dwelling in ideal realms
                          -the brain-
Madness

Melancholy

Indistinct curses with eyes upturned, already ******.
Happiness wit hglances introverted, shrouded in gloom,
arms wildly beating spirits - sought to forget
close by,
those glimpses
open to the doom of death

Anxiety is a cold, lilac purple.
It sounds like a care siren going off on a brisk September morning
It tastes like orange peels from yesterday's lunch
It smells like burning rubber
Anxiety feels like motion sickness from being trapped under impeding waves, with you hands tied to a post

Infatuation is transparent red.
It sounds like the quickened pace of a fox in the forest
It tastes like metallic blood pumping in the back of your throat
It smells like three week old lilacs
Infatuation feels like burrs stuck in the sleeves of your tattered wool sweater.