This river runs deep; I write in my sleep. If you could see the things I see, You too would have to speak.
I have been frozen, Never truly chosen, Many times broken, But now I feel the heat, burning inside of me.
Pressure builds so I pick up the quill And I will never be still, until… But now I am here, So I hope you can hear, The words I cannot help but write, In the middle of this pitch black night; The phone my only light.
Predictive text, has only left, me to forget, a train of thought. A lack of wed, no peace in bed, I write my best whilst wearing nought. Insomnia it comes and goes, so even when my eyes are closed, I may be watching all of those that creep along my wall. The insect beings and spider queens have all joined teams, To watch over me…and I can hear them talk. Inside my dreams I am minute when I am mute. If only you could hear my voice, maybe I could reach out for you.
As I fall down into oblivion’s din, No saving grace is listening.