My eyes are shutting,
why do I always have to write so late at night?
Maybe my heart sees in this
pen and this paper potential for a light
in this darkness. A clear sight
in this fog that swirls and twirls around my
head and covers up my mind.
Maybe putting ink in this dried pulp and
barfing out the words I can no longer gulp down
is the only therapy I need.
My inner ****** saying, "**** group."
And saying
Maybe I don't need those pills
'cause they mainly make me feel like
sometimes time's just standing still or
slowly slides along like
the beat of a sad song And
Though I don't know, I guess
these black scribbles help me
to grow out of my fears.
Maybe I'll keep doing this for years and years
stay up till dawn writing and writing
and have stacks of big books, black inside and out, about
lying with the truth of my thoughts
and my unuttered shouts.