Spending my nights with the likes of the living dead.
There's a battle every morning just to get out of bed.
Then a quiet acceptance of this is what it is.

Off time spent like a hyper kid without his Ritalin
Watching my actions as a detached audience
Thinking with horror, constantly;
"What's going to happen next?"
Thrilled by my own incredulity.
Appalled by my lack of discretion.
All the time toiling toward answering that same question.

Spending my nights with myself and a bed.
Waking with a sense of longing and dread.
Going through my days pretending.
Gritting my teeth and turning different shades of red.
Trying to time my own ending.