maybe if I lay here long enough,
the dirt will seep into my bones,
it will race through my veins.
and the vines
will loop around my arms.
and when it rains,
I'll sink even further into
the muddy ground.
and when it the air is crisp and cool
and the trees light up in flames,
the leaves will cover me up
until there will be nothing left.
so please, leave me here in the grass
until even you forget me.

When I open my ears,
I can hear a symphony of beautiful sounds.
But it is too often that I let my ears go to waste,
and only keep my eyes wide open,
although they are unseeing.

I.

A late night trip to the bathroom
shows a warped vision of myself
through a cracked mirror
it tells a story
through the dark circles
under my eyes.
It all tells me to sleep,
although that was already made clear
by my foggy mind and hazy vision.
I go back to bed
but when I close my eyes
I cannot see sleep in the future.
So instead I lay with my eyes open,
staring at the white ceiling.
It looks back at me,
harsh, unforgiving.
The storm outside
does nothing to help
quell the voices in my head.

II.

The voices in my head argue
and tell me that
everything is either all very clear
or a muddled swamp of metaphors.
And they have decided
my life is all one horrible metaphor
for childish infatuations
that could never be
that turn into a stronger feeling.
I tell them to try and be quiet
because I’m trying to sleep,
but they do not quiet.

III.

They do not quiet,
they never do.
Quiet is a warm hug
and space in my head.
Quiet is muted murmurs
creeping up stairs
and slipping through keyholes.
But they do silence.
Silence is deafening.
It lures and traps me in a cage
where I am unable to breathe.
It is a force that stops me
from being human,
it is all consuming.
That is why I let them stay,
because I prefer the chaotic cacophony
of voices
to silence.
They never stop.

IV.

Never stop dreaming
is what everyone says
but I think I did
when I stopped being able to sleep.
The clock blinks 4:32
and so maybe it’s more
early morning than late night,
but is there really a difference?
I’ve given up,
maybe I’ll sleep tomorrow night
instead.
And when they all ask
if I’m okay,
I’ll just tell them
it was a late night.

V.

It was a late night,
I was kept awake by
the voices in my head.
They do not quiet,
They never stop.
It was a late night.

perhaps today i'll get out of bed.
perhaps today i'll eat breakfast other than
a stale poptart or
an old granola bar.
perhaps today i'll speak to someone
other than in choked whispers ending in silent tears
or angry screams ending in sobs.
perhaps today i'll write something down
instead of letting it ricochet around my head
for weeks
before forgetting i even thought of it.
perhaps today i'll stop painting myself
the hero
in an entirely made up reality
when i am in fact the villain of my story
trapping myself in a paper cage
filled with my own words.
perhaps.

I have too many words
trapped inside this vessel
of light and blood and bones.
I don’t know where to put them
or how to say them
or how to get people to listen.
So I scribble them on pieces of paper
ripped from a spiral notebook
I haven’t used since sixth grade,
dusty from being placed
in the corner of my room
for so long.
And then I hide them away in a jar
labeled 'secrets'
and never think of them again.

I know how stories should go
I know what happens next
so why isn’t it happening to me?
“get your head out of the clouds” they say
“your life isn’t a story book” they say
but it could be
if I only look hard enough