Awake too soon, to a dusk dusty with blue linings, not knowing what is shadow and who is foe, a precursor twilight sky and a dead city, still asleep. The cold that is felt, the concrete, the breeze, the metallic neglect or indifference, seeps in--not into Our shrapnel skin, but deep into the soul's being.

It feels like I am an infant that has been discarded and unwanted, and having not been found, losing a voice and a will to expect more than the stench of a life at the bottom of the heap of a garbage bin... I wake too late to catch myself... And like a babe I was ignorant of these fine lines, with edges of asphalt, blacktop streets so easy to break anyone walking it's tightrope... It's all fun and games until you lose all sight, although many who bed the sidewalks, calling it their mistress, know that it is not a blindness of the eyes, but something more, that we forgot to heed and keep a mindful thought...

Awake at the witches' hour, and already the voices are gathering their laughter and insults, all I wanted was another hour or more of stillness of nothingness, in sleep I find non existence, unless a nightmare or a dream reminds me of the reality outside... How can it be that scarecrows, or an inanimate thing as this, passed by without a second look, how can it feel so much, and suffer more? How can a nothing no one knows or cares for, flotsam, minutiae rock, possess more hell than the devil knows, all the wars and cancer, lifeless and painfully so...

then I recall all the sudden, the shuddering of my bones gripped by the winter wind, I remember that it was life I was to pay --attention to, or off a ******/wagon, pay checks are as long gone as the dinosaurs... How can we keep our eyes open and be mindful of life's beautiful *******, when all we look for is numb and a means to ****** the emotions that are alien to our own selves? When it's all breaking News and nothing's good enough but surrender and suicide... Then I recall the rumbling of life in my belly, and how empty truly feels similar to being wounded in battle / the field of grey and iron a constant reminder... We are nothing without the paper, the cash money, green / I forget what color trees use to be , when a vagrant's hunger is appeased when the Cheshire smoke floats away -- the pain of waking up too late or early... A twenty is still black and silver foil to me... The trees round here are barren or dime sac dubs, I want to defy my lungs when I recall the breeze, whipping lashes of ice ... Go **** a tree, my straw will suffice (I recall breath and beauty, falling down the pinstripe straws, the hollow of undead uncaring, the engine hum of bleak and ****** heat..) but winter always comes...

I remember that the **** is all the same, even completely wide aware with eyes dry but deeply pleading to go blind. Tell me how can a corpse of this scarecrow begin to cry, thus being somehow alive, too cowardly to succeed... Suicide is a name of a 40 oz. whenever he happens a happy dream.

Awake too early before the sun, I sit facing the west and feel the fire behind me... A rooster crows and all th world's voices scream to hate me.
Most times it's so loud with such weight of being nothing, the pain of empty, i buy black and I fall where I stand and pray to die in my sleep... Where ever it is I think I am... I mumble recalling nothing...still lost and forever needing...