It has become more of a conversation to a listless void
Written in an almost spoken manner
Words seem to tumble out of my mouth and onto a screen
Venting its esoteric nonsense to a muse that is either deaf or unable to respond
It is no longer an attempt to express love in that rhyme dime fashion or to detox in a Poe'tic fashion
It has become my random thoughts screaming out into the abyss hoping for an echo of something that isn't its own voice.

The old maroon fabric feels like the uncomfortable glide of fingers over a velvet poster
That annoying fuzzy feeling that leaves a bad touch after taste
Similar to the feeling of nails against a chalk board wall or the feeling of tiny insect feet crawling in the darkness of a room
The skin raising feeling that lingers
Creating that sudden down turn to the mouth in a way most unattractive but more real than anything portrayed by the movies.

That kind of disgust that can only come from the feeling of true honest to god antique furniture that refuses to modernize.
Putting to shame in that moment any other feeling of discomfort you have had in the last month.
But ****** if it isn't the most comfortable fall into never want to leave piece of furniture you own.
Forcing you both to love and loathe.

I find myself awake in the endless now
Closer to the immediate time of midnight
That stretches in the echoing tick of a second
The true forever of the present

In the gaping maw of an endless moment marching forward
I can't help but wonder how its that we wake into the comprehension that the future is an imaginary concept that is never truly reached.
When between two seconds I have felt the breadth of an eternity
Breathing its hot and uncomfortable decomposition onto my being
Aging,
Tallying away the moments until I am but ash on the pavement

That our only perception of reality can happen in the foreverness of a moment that becomes wistful of itself like some elder trying to relive the fleeting feeling of youth
That the past is only a recollection of the now in its nostalgic bubble
Painted like some old time movie in the cobwebbed section of the brain, that forgets important information
Like where the keys are and instead keeps the bitter burn of being in love for the first time.
The last time.

Its these lanquid seemingly shallow thoughts that keep me from dropping into the blissful chaos of REM
Falling off the face of reality and into the black nothing
My brain digs into conceptual conundrums, when really all I want to do is sleep..

I see the world in rainbow colored glasses
Focusing on the bright boldness that is life
Rather than it's shades of gray
There is not a day in monochrome for everything is always changing
Shifting in and out of blues and greens
Every color in between
And what better way to love it all than to see all it's patterns fall
Beyond the rose tinted frame.

I feel like my mind runs into itself quite often
Like the never ending thoughts overlap into each other until
One either collapses and gives heed to another
Or subsides like a wave to wash back over me when I least expect it
Its why I branch into a topic touching just the bare breath
Before ******* back into the racing void of thoughts that tumble
Like dominos one by one into each other in a chaotic jumble of half formed ideas
Which spread into streams of consciousness that seem to go on forever in a breadth to long for a single breath of air to make vocal.
This is why I feel grammar, or really the English language has never been my friend.

Insomnia has fallen into my bed again
Taken the blankets and run away with the night
Like a bandit it guards it
Like Smaug it refuses to share
Flaunting its peacock feathers
Unobtainable
Elusive
Some exotic creature prowling the dark
Letting loose its seductive calls
While I sit here
Eyes crusted and stinging
Doing anything to still the anxious
Vibrations of my mind

Have you ever been so hopelessly
Lost in a moment
Intranced by something so far gone it seems to detach from you
And wander like it has its own mind.
Echoing the stachato of feet so far down the stairs that the way back looks like a tunnel
Of never ending shapes
So distinteresting from the vividity
That is the present thought
That you dream that you did not have to wake to the reality of the now
Like a kid looking through a window on Christmas eve all that bottled happiness lays behind the wall of the mind.
I often find myself window shopping down that hall
Hoping for a taste of what was
Aching to catch her before she gets to far away.