So bide your time and be glad you’re not me

sometimes I wake up at 4 am
desperately stumbling out of bed
and knocking over the wine next to me

and squinting my eyes in the light fumbling
for a pen and paper

because I’ve got these words in me
that haunt me in my dreams

like hands reaching up through ancient graves

you are the crypt keeper
you feel like dust
and taste like paper

my life feels like a mausoleum

and if you are questioning how one’s life could be compared to such a thing it’s like I said-
be glad you aren’t me