Same cycle, turning wheels and whirring motors
Running my life, mechanic.
Sleep and time are my loves, and I am Poe:
They were taken from me, my sleep is dead.

Sleep is eternally sleeping.

The dead spider under the refrigerator,
The crushed centipede on the bathroom wall,
Crawly things: crawlersout the dead skin you refuse to
Scrape off.
Skin sleeps and melts: drip on the floor, paint stains from the living room walls.
It has been the same color for years, the exact color I despise.
It reminds me of Mondays and Sundays.
The steriotypicality.
It goes in circles, everybody hates them
But they are me favorite shape. Not then arrows guide
In the forever, never ending march forward.
An army of automatons, gears screeching and crying, but most of us are so emotionless, faceless.
Drinking not the water or bubblies at party's, but the crude oil emitted from the ground.
And it turns their skin orange, no one likes the fake ness, caked on
Tar that you think make your eyes shine.
And the gossip, squeaky voices that talk endlessly about everything but reality.
I want to **** them all, the lies.
And I want to sleep forever, escape from everything I have ever despised,
And I want him to join me. Wrap me in a hot quilt that he formed with his own physique.
Somehow make me forget about everything but that.

But no, it doesn't fit in this never ending waterwheel. Not enough grooves to
Scoop up the sand of my life and give me a mission.
But we can defy the sand, the horrid hourglass that ticks away, the sound of pebbles
Plunking into a river.
Throw them off of a bridge and jump with them, as some people do.
Ignore them, or help them. Most are too blinded by themselves.
They can't stand change, but it shapes them. A unique shape other than the rounded
The rest are.
But I am lost. No clue where to go, what I am saying, I should be put away,
Blank white room or a steel table in a morgue.

Hallowed ground means nothing to me. Coffins are cramped, horrid boxes of sadness,
I will not die that way. No crying, tears will soil your handsome clothes.
I was reborn. You still have me close; my form changed. A circle
Does not define me anymore. I put another notch in my medicine wheel, another
Cure to my disease. Another way to say as much as I do.

But the walls are still the same dreary color. Skin just cooling, but splattered on the floor;
Cover it with a rug. Distract from the blank walls, no expression. Never changing.
Or write on them with colored pen. Carve things into them.
Change yourself. Put yourself away because inside that thick skull
Is an asylum of your own.