Welcome to a reading of my innermost thoughts.
I call it poetry on most days.
It stings sometimes.

There was a small strand of sympathy
when he let go; however,
in order to do so, he knew what had to be done.

He cut all ties,
for himself, for preservation.

He's better, one could suppose,
but one dealt-with situation opens
the door to so many more.
You'd think he'd learn that by now,
wouldn't you?

There was a time that I swore more in written word
than in spoken.
I think the turn has tabled.

There's an alarm going off;
it's not a siren, mind you,
but an alarm.

The very same buzzing and
beeping that oft
assaults our dreams
and sleep-havens;
bringing us back to the
dreary sunlight of day,
or the last few moments of night
clinging to what life it has left.

This alarm, of which I speak to
you now, is continuing.
The continuous assault on my
eardrums throughout everything
I do.
I walk through the leaves that begin
to grace the ground, saying "hello" to
the dirt that it's been so far from for so
long.
Within the sanctity of the classroom,
where professors grace students
with life lessons and years of experience
or lack thereof.
Within my own home where I continue
to make a meal for the evening, desiring
not to go hungry.

Continuous.

I hear it everywhere, and
as I reach for the button, to stop
this incessant noise
barraging my thoughts
and ears, I realize, I'm awake,
and I've been awake all this time.
There is no off button for this alarm.

What is it reminding me of?
What do I need to awake from?

If I could write a word for every thought
left unfinished, unsaid, I'd almost write a full