Going to sleep is the scariest thing.
Not because of nightmares
Or sleep walking or whatever else,
But because of the uncertainty.
The uncertainty that a new day will start,
That your life won't be significantly altered,
Or that your loved ones will be the same.

Normal people don't dread sleep though,
But there's just something about cancer
That makes sleep an uneasy task.
Having a mother with cancer will change your entire life.
From dreading the thing you cherished most,
To not knowing how to live your life.

You become used to being woken up for
Middle of the night treks to the ER.
And to think about becoming used to that
Well, that's enough to make you sick.
But you have no choice but to trudge through,
You have to seem strong and stable,
But going to sleep is the scariest thing.

our bread and butter...
     the web of stars,
     the scatter of moons
     and orbiting planets.
the entire universe
harvested and crammed
into the metre,
of a poetic verse.

our bread and butter...
     harnessing the regal rays of the sun.
     inflating the fluff of quiet clouds.
     drinking up the winds of the weather.
     revering the magic in the flight of birds.
we fill our cups to the brim...
with fantastical dreams
and let spill
over parchment
the cornucopia of idealised words.

our bread and butter...
the incessant peeling and picking
on healing wounds.
of which we have learnt to savour...
     let bleed
     the willing blood...
     feed the seeds
     with impending flood.
nurture to fruition
thoughts stunted in discretion.
bring to light
thoughts hidden in the nether.

our bread and butter...
we dip...
the nibs,
of our word worn feathers.
let them sink,
shallow beneath the surface
to the sanctity of a familiar place.
     *casting our trials,
     and tribulations...
     pent up emotions,
     and what we think
     unto paper
     with the burn of
     everlasting ink.

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

Today I openly admit that I am an addict.
I've been Addicted to the sensation and lost in the lullaby.
I've watched my potential dwindle thin.
I've had an overwhelming desire to get clean but no drive to begin.

I've cried my nights away in a withdrawal of sorts.
I've given up on everything except my last resort.

My vice is the most expensive out there.
What does a life cost?
What does a wasted life cost?

The regrets of yesterday catch you faster than you can sleep them away.
When apathy runs deep in your veins.
Pulling at my last straw - my last tall claim.

Today I turned my life around.
Not just another nudge for me to yo-yo.
I've derived a focus and approached my limit.

I'll sweat blood until I'm free of this apathy.
A victim of my actions in this endless tragedy.


My name's Jack and I'm an addict.