Five fourteen p.m., my coffee bubbles in the pot.
Absent minded typing keeps the flood of thoughts away.
Drips pass through the filter, like a cut that cannot clot.
The radio hums static and I bend my knees to pray.
Eight o' nine p.m., I cry, "Oh, please Lord, stay with me."
Pacing footsteps creak and sigh, echoing my plea.
Clanking chains and padlocks keep my arms from flailing free
but still I scream out, "Should I climb atop a sycamore tree?!"
Two o' three a.m., no thoughts my dreamcatcher has caught.
I'm blinking, staring into space, to keep the tears at bay.
Somber, grave, inside my sheets my bones begin to rot.
God, fight off these demons, they are begging me to stray.