too many people
in this hot,    crowded,     place.

my blood pressure is rising
rising in a cacophany
of screaming children
and adult conversation

the chattering,    chattering,    chattering
never ceases

i do not wish to be spoken to
i want nothing more than to hide,
away in my bedroom,
away from the sounds
and the people

please,
leave   me   alone

the house is
quiet
and all around
is the hum
of the night;

the air in the vents
sings a breathy old tune
that i hear every night
in my bed

and the floorboards
they creak their own melodies, too
and the footsteps up stairs
is what conduct them

and the television downstairs
makes the house feel alive
when the others are all
sound asleep

and the windows
they rattle, unfixed in their frames
and i fear they may never
hush.

On my desk, in the dark
I see them:
blue,
red,
orange,
white.
I cannot sleep.

I am used to a certain thrumming,
Constantly whispering behind my eyes
Telling me that there are things to do,
Deadlines to fulfill,
And discussions to have.
But these voices do not murmur
And will not, for a while.
For the first time in months,
I wish that it wasn't
So quiet.

It is comfortable
when it is for
medicinal purposes.
Benzocaine
is a bottle
of magic.

Let us come to an understanding
That what I want to do,
And what I need to do
Correlate little
Within the grand scheme
That is the static
Of the universe

Quiet contemplation
of a world that makes you seem
so,
so,
small.
In the tapestry
of the universe
you are a fifth
of a twelfth
of a hundredth
of a centimeter of string.
Because the universe is
so,
so,
big,
it is hard not to feel
insignificant.