Spending my nights with the likes of the living dead.
There's a battle every morning just to get out of bed.
Then a quiet acceptance of this is what it is.
Off time spent like a hyper kid without his Ritalin
Watching my actions as a detached audience
Thinking with horror, constantly;
"What's going to happen next?"
Thrilled by my own incredulity.
Appalled by my lack of discretion.
All the time toiling toward answering that same question.
Spending my nights with myself and a bed.
Waking with a sense of longing and dread.
Going through my days pretending.
Gritting my teeth and turning different shades of red.
Trying to time my own ending.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
Spending my nights with the likes of the living dead.
There's a battle every morning just to get out of bed.
Then a quiet acceptance of this is what it is.
Off time spent like a hyper kid without his Ritalin
Watching my actions as a detached audience
Thinking with horror, constantly;
"What's going to happen next?"
Thrilled by my own incredulity.
Appalled by my lack of discretion.
All the time toiling toward answering that same question.
Spending my nights with myself and a bed.
Waking with a sense of longing and dread.
Going through my days pretending.
Gritting my teeth and turning different shades of red.
Trying to time my own ending.
Request permission to use this poem