Upon a bed of nails I sleep,
because its cold and also cheap.
I never have to count the sheep,
nor toss and turn from fitful sleep.

A friend of mine, his head did peep,
into my room (my clothes a heap).
He asked about the place I sleep;
"What strange habits do you keep?"

I assured my friend I was no creep;
"I love sharp nails on which to sleep.
Oh, they go in, but not too deep.
But, when I get on I do not leap."

When I'm in bed, I am asleep.
There is no pain to make me weep.
And though my sleep is not too deep,
It couldn't be so cool or so cheap.

"Being in love

Without being loved back

Is like laying on a bed of flowers

And feeling a bed of nails."

Once, two years ago,
when i was younger,
but not so far back in time that to be before i was aware and fully alive,
i sent an email.

two years ago,
i sent an email to my favorite blogger,
who often writes about the universe and things people generally don’t understand,
and i told him something,

i told my favorite blogger something,
at the time i thought it to be terribly enlightened, though looking back seems naive;
i told him he should make a database on everything,
i cringe thinking about it.

i hope he never read the email,
if he did he may’ve thought it cute,
i asked my favorite blogger to compile all the things a person should know about this world, this life.

But maybe this wasn’t as dumb as I think.

See, we all want easy answers.
I thought he could give them to me (he can’t)
So I asked.
You gotta love that about kids.
They’re not afraid to ask.

Somewhere along the way, then, I must’ve grown up.
Because, though my fingers move fast in this digital realm,
Out in the real world, my voice is paralyzed.

With no one to turn to, my questions go unasked.

"You are not mine
but sometimes
I pretend that
you wish you were.

I create this idea
that you secretly
want me

And I often forget
it's just something
I've made up

and that
you do not want me
and you are not mine."

                           [E]