I miss Sleep’s gentle touch.
Her kiss against my ever greedy cheek; becoming swamped
in the tide of cover and quilt,
entangling myself in her dreams.


I long for her as each days drag on,
but forget her as I lie
in sweetest, softest sheets,
surrounded by the blackness of my mind.


She has a bitter streak, Sleep, that is.
For she drags me down to icy black depths as I let my anchor loose.
She holds me in writhing hands that
poke, and ****, and bruise.


When my self resurfaces - at the beep of new day.
My soul gasps for air
in the screaming, sweating freedom,
when I break from her night-time snare.

Give me your hands dear
and ill show you a new world
a world of color

Fake hair
Fake name
Fake nails
Fake game

Fake smile
Fake tan
Fake brow
Fake can

Fake laugh
Fake lips
Fake brow
Fake ****

Buried deep
Under all this fake
Is a girl
With money t' make

The little green specks died
When we opened our eyes,
And you made a grave for them

You looked at me and asked,
"Why?"

That day we both cried
Knowing that fireflies could only last so long

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.