in the darkness he whispers your name,
and it's not a prayer, but it's not a goodbye, either.
war war war screaming at you from your sheets,
your pillowcase, that book lying open on the couch.
war war war underneath his fingernails
and all you can do is hold each other
(there's a heavy kind of magic in the air, today)

My emotions are a skeleton
and every bone is breaking.
My heart is a cavern
and the ceiling is collapsing.

If disappointment were the ocean,
I'd have sailed the seven seas.
My eyes are a furnace
and the saltwater is my excuse.

I could create endless metaphors,
turn my anguish into beauty,
craft well-written analogies,
and pretend pain is poetry.

But honestly I'm just empty,
there are no words that convey
this simple absence of fulfillment,
the hole in my chest isn't poetic.

I have huge dreams and fiery passions,
but I'm lying in bed writing poems,
life is dripping through my fingertips
and I'm just watching it hit the cement.

I feel like a failure,
I'm afraid my life is worthless,
I'm incapable of succeeding,
I'm not good enough to win.

These words are midnight's lies
but they're finding me in the daylight.
I have become exhausted,
and I am so tired of being tired.