Mar 2015
I get nervous still, but not because I'm terrified of the crowd or the consequences but because I'm terrified of my words not connecting the dots between your thoughts and mine, there are uncountable ways of which one could compare the simplicity and tragic nature of a kite or balloon to life, the government, business, and thought..
And this seems to poetic to have any root in reality but maybe that's why I'm speaking this way.
I told you last time we met that I found myself thinking of you the other day and what are the odds of that, that we'd meet soon after.
But what I meant was I catch myself thinking of you every day in fact you'd be hard pressed to comb through my life with the Hubble telescope to find a moment I wasn't.
But I can't tell you that.
So dear sleep, why do you continue to evade me when I need you the most...
I'm injured by ricochet bullets from my own machine gun mouth.
And sliced open by my bladed tongue.
So come soon, because 911 has their hands full and I've been on hold for a while with a killer in the room and a little pink elephant.
The storm clouds outside refuse to cease and desist, the weather man has given up hope forecasting anything other than hail and grey skies, I don't mind that so bad, but dear sleep can I get a little break.
I've gone through three pairs of sneakers pacing around town already. The 3rd shift convenient store clerk has my usually ready at the walk through counter every night, but I never remember her name.
Work gave me a month’s medical leave, since then I'm not sure if I talked to anyone that wasn't a hallucination.
They all sound the same now, the only way I distinguish one from the next is if they are coming or going.
Those seem to carry their own tones, like some kind of polite masquerade where no one wishes to say what their really thinking because they’re not sure how it’s going to come across.
But it's all beyond me that anyone would care, because then what's the point of speaking?
Perfection as a concept is a sick joke and I don't understand why we feel restrained by it.
But dear sleep! please unlock the door and let me in,
for one the dog house ***** and two I get the point,
I should never have neglected your dreams.
And this seems to poetic to have any root in reality but maybe that's why I'm speaking this way.
I told you last time we met that I found myself thinking of you the other day and what are the odds of that, that we'd meet soon after.
But what I meant was I catch myself thinking of you every day in fact you'd be hard pressed to comb through my life with the Hubble telescope to find a moment I wasn't.
But I can't tell you that.
So dear sleep, why do you continue to evade me when I need you the most...
I'm injured by ricochet bullets from my own machine gun mouth.
And sliced open by my bladed tongue.
So come soon, because 911 has their hands full and I've been on hold for a while with a killer in the room and a little pink elephant.
The storm clouds outside refuse to cease and desist, the weather man has given up hope forecasting anything other than hail and grey skies, I don't mind that so bad, but dear sleep can I get a little break.
I've gone through three pairs of sneakers pacing around town already. The 3rd shift convenient store clerk has my usually ready at the walk through counter every night, but I never remember her name.
Work gave me a month’s medical leave, since then I'm not sure if I talked to anyone that wasn't a hallucination.
They all sound the same now, the only way I distinguish one from the next is if they are coming or going.
Those seem to carry their own tones, like some kind of polite masquerade where no one wishes to say what their really thinking because they’re not sure how it’s going to come across.
But it's all beyond me that anyone would care, because then what's the point of speaking?
Perfection as a concept is a sick joke and I don't understand why we feel restrained by it.
But dear sleep! please unlock the door and let me in,
for one the dog house ***** and two I get the point,
I should never have neglected your dreams.
Regret can **** a man.
