We sketched it out,
Construed an outline
With bullet points;
Worked on the draft,
Fashioned the conclusion
While forming an introduction,
And through infusion,
Developed an argument.

From thesis to synthesis
We entered the plot,
Quite sure of twists,
Not knowing the costs.
Our assay would go
Something  like that.

Plodding forward
Through antithesis,
The crises, decisions,
Then the denoument.

In conclusion,
To summarize:
The vacant character
Of my eyes,
Was the climactic dowfall;
Your hero dies.

The final draft
Was finely crafted,
Something just like that.

I am a pen
Safe in a warm hand
I can write poetry short stories
Even novels
And I am always put away safely
Ready for the next time.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2017.

No longer does my pen bleed for me
No longer do my unwept tears
Form the ink that flows from my nib
Those days are gone

Farewell to those days
Of pages inked with caustic passion
No longer will they soak
In the bitter aftertaste of love

The madness has passed
The storm has settled
No more hiding from its crashing tides
Within the dreams of summer days
No more finding refuge in the daydreams of winter nightscapes
The storm has passed
And its woes have washed away with it

And for once I can say
That I can feel my heart beating again
I can feel the rush of a long forgotten vivacity
Pulsing through me
Filling me with hope once more

Passion
Warmth
Comfort
It's all coming back now

What's insomnia like?

It's when your body and mind are drained and exhausted, but something inside your head refuses to quiet down.
Its like there's a special compartment of thoughts that only opens when it's time for bed.
A unique box filled with the things you're afraid to address during the day.
The things that chase you.
Haunt you.
Bug you.

The things you'll probably never forget.
Moments permanently ingrained in memory.
Good.
Bad.
Damaging.

Things you regret.
And things you never will.

Something.
Nothing.
Everything.

They cower in the light
And return in the night.
Never leaving
Never resting.

Chasing you to the day.
Chasing all your dreams away.
Wide eyed
Vulnerable.

****** into darkness
A restless trance
Of never ending thoughts
A maddening dance.

What is insomnia?

It is madness.
Ectacy.
Horror.
Trance.
A lost abyss of endless thoughts.
The ones that never leave you.
The ones you'll never release.
Trapped inside for eternal night.

Numbed.

Yet, feeling.

Deadened.

Yet, living.

Forgetting.

Yet, remembering.

Loving.

Yet, hating.

Saddened.  

Yet, smiling.

Missing.

Yet, satisfied.  

Lamenting.

Yet, appreciating.

Cinching.

Yet, releasing.

Holding on.

Letting go.

Always here.

Forever disappearing.

Fighting to be lost.

Daring to be found.

On the flip side of every page.

If you've felt the floor
At the bottom of your cave
After falling 40 feet
Blood across your lips
Body slammed across
The field of rocks and dirt
Unable to move
Days go by slower
All you can hear are screams
As you shut your eyes
If you've been there, my friend
You've felt the thirst
Which nothing can tame
It's in the air at night
In your bones at light
The eyes are majestic
The feeling is soft
And your veins are cold
It is all you want
To reach out and take it
Ravage it over and over
As it asks for more
******* out the life
And breathing into yours
It drives you mad with frenzy!
Rushing all over your body
And you can't stop till
You've had enough
Floating away with the waves
Waiting to come back for more

My eyesight is terrible.
I’m allergic to dust.
I can’t fold clothes.
I hate using chopsticks.
I refuse to eat mushrooms.
I always forget to floss.
My hands are all veiny.
I bite my nails.
Blow my nose loudly.
Sneeze a lot.
Trip.
Run into things.
Rush.

I’m late all the time.
Have too much stuff.
Drop things.
Lose things.
Forget.

I push people away.
I’m scared to be loved.
I’m mean sometimes.
Brash.
Make decisions too quickly.

I pick on my friends.
I go a little too far.
I’m too sensitive.
Get mad too easily.
Hold a grudge.
Am slow to forgive.

I react badly to criticism.
My hair is too thin.
Gets frizzy and tangled.
My nose is too round.

My posture is awful.
My feet are all callused.
And covered in marks.
My legs are too big.
My shape is too wide.
My shoulders are stiff.
I’m always uptight.

I get mad at myself.
I get mad at the world.
I get confused.
And afraid.
And angry.

I get sad and depressed.
I hate being alone.
I let things get to me.
I get tired.
I give up.

I bite at my lips.
And play with my hair.
I laugh really loudly
And sometimes I swear
I often get angry
And rarely play fair.
Though I’ll never be perfect,
I really don’t care.

I feel as though I'm swimming in an ocean of despair.
Slowly losing my mind to those who have long since lost theirs.
I do not want to think about what darkness lurks abound.
For everywhere I turn it seems that hatred can be found.
And thus exists an endless cycle: anger, fear, and hate.
While love is left abandoned with a thirst it cannot sate.
And lost amongst destruction that, alone, we cannot halt.
Stricken by the idea that this cannot be our fault.
And so we pray and mourn the loss of all those who did fall.
Shedding tears and hoping that someone will hear our call.
But voices fall to empty ears, they will not hear our cry.
An echo is so hard to hear, unless you truly try.