I dream about not being able to sleep
and I wake up exhausted.
I had, once, in my heart, a memory of you
now I just remember the memory.
the night finds my sadness,
and it offers me a song;
"Down the road I go, going down, down the road, going down slow..."

I feel safest at this hour. Alone, uneasy,
but safe. They don't come for you at 3:00am.

I doubt I chose this. In fact I KNOW I didn't choose this... I think (self doubt is a neccesary evil).This chose me, this, this crazy motion of laying down words, which are meant to reflect the feelings and ideas of my heart and mind. These words, which all of them, have double meanings, if not more, are suppose to enlighten, hold back the darkness, expand the mind, bring one closer to God, or at the very least, bring one to self awarness. These words...how, sometimes they fumble onto the paper, clumsy and awkward, like the wrong pieces of a puzzle. How, sometimes they disgust me. Like now, pushing onwards, not knowing what to say, feeling it all vanish, the magic of only moments before when the song came to me along with the train whistle blowing loud over a dark land. How can it come and go like it does? Now I feel like tearing it all down, starting over, but...it's no use. I must learn to let it go. If it was born weak, it won't last. If it has no roots, it will be uprooted and tossed away. You can't be held responsible for these words that you try honestly to lay down. They come out as they are; you give them a place to dwell. If, planted upon the page, they bury their roots deep, so be it...it is good, and be humble and thankful. If not, it's out there already, and you must let nature take it's course. Be humble and thankful. Realize to, that this sort of undertaking takes courage. You risk it all when you lay down the word. But you risk more if you don't: you risk losing your mind, you risk becoming apart of the unfortunate herd; you risk losing the chance of ever seeing the light in it's purest form; you risk losing the warmth of a candle as it holds back all the darkness in the world; you risk losing the long wait in the night for the sun to rise. Who knows these things better then the ones who gamble with the word? Who else, but the one who crafts with words, knows that the word is the beginning and ending of everything?

When I rise in the morning I feel like lying down again...
When I kiss your mouth I want to kiss it again...
I don't want to close my eyes when they are open; I don't want to open them when they are closed.
I only eat when I'm hungry...sometimes not for days.
I figure I'm halfway through living...somehow this cheers me up, reminds me of Elvis singing the American Trilogy. A happy man wants to live forever. A sad man doesn't envy the happy man, for he knows a happy man has no heart. A sad man wants to be happy every once in a while, when it's truly worth it. And then a sad man is truly the happiest man in the world.
Without the dark, there is no light. Until the darkness is vanquished, it will always be this way.
Everybody is wounded. Everything is breaking down. The sadness is growing and it will become overwhelming. Tears are flowing from all eyes, rich or poor. Everybody is thirsty, looking for the drink that will quench that thirst forever. Maybe in death, finally, maybe then, or will it continue? Is this our last trip through the million years of heartache and sorrow? Or, like time, will it never stop? Time, the Bringer of Pain...the longer we go on, the more we hurt. If Time should stop now, I'd be in sorrow for ever. The sweetest songs are the sad longing ones, in any culture. The one's about love, heartache. Why must there always be a hint of sadness in everything we say, do or see?
I haven't been happy now for a very long time. I've learned to accept and deal with it. I've learned to use it. Somehow, accepting it helps. You can feel the wisdom this brings. Eventually, looking back, we will all laugh at this, right before we die, and know that it was meant to be like this. Better to know this now, know it well, laugh about it, and when the time comes, perhaps one can die happy.
A smile on your dead lips. A mystery behind that smile.
A joy for the ones in the know.
A seed planted in the hearts of the others.
Everything will be alright. Be of good cheer. The earth is flat again, which makes things so much easier. Now I know what I gotta do, and that moral law wasn't invented by the rich to keep the poor from robbing their banks and hanging their dogs.

Well, you don't have to  need a reason, but you do need a ryhmn, to keep in measure, all this passing of time.
Flipping through my books gots me realizing that I'd make a hypocrite
tree hugger
And the comfort of the night finally becomes a delay once again.
Never felt good when I started but feeling bad that I have to stop.
Enjoy your mornings and don't forget your masks.