The noise surrounding misbehaves;
The presence of devotion.
Covenants made until the graves,
Or some heart's first emotion.

The adorned comforts in delight,
She is curled up yet open;
Clingy with ladybug wings bright
And the actions soft-spoken.

Deep within a chamber of blood
This pinprick of loneliness,
Pulsing with an empty deep thud;
Wishing the same - to caress.

It can be dangerous
     To encounter something
     Thought provoking before sleep

Maybe you will have a couple of minutes of afterthought
     And then drift to Sleep
Or you may catch Insomnia caused by, and causing,
    A series of jumbled thoughts
Thoughts that change paths quickly, sharply and often

So they are crossing and weaving
     Going up and down, side to side
               Forwards, backwards, short and longways
                         Until you have an apparently infinitely tangled mess
                                   And that point a 9mm seems appropriate
                                             To clear out this heap that has kept you from
                                                       Much needed slumber for the past few hours
-Whew

Don't take this as a suicide attempt though
     No this is merely a desperate, fantasy of an attempt for some rest

The next plan may be to scream,
     as if jumping from a building
     Hoping that the thoughts would leave
     With the air from your lungs
Of course that would not work
     Seeing how breathe and ideas
     Come from different parts of the body
And your not so cruel to wake those who do manage to sleep

So now try to scream inside your head
     But really you want someone to hear it
     So the purpose (which I believe I no longer grasp) is defeated
Well, you could scream to yourself,
     Or God
     So someone knows what going on
But then out of now where arguments break out
     Upon realizing that you are fighting with yourself
     You fear a schizophrenic diagnosis
     And argue with God (if you haven't already)
     About why he gave you two personalities
          That fight each other into the wee hours of the night

Then your mind will just happen to wander
     From the quarrel
Analyzing the last point to come up
     Which drifts into a semi-related tangent
          Then wander to something some one did
               That this particular thought reminds you of
                    Maybe that meanders on ever to the actions
                         Of a character from some book you've read
                              And after rereading the book inside your head
                                   Go on and review everything you've read by the author
                              And relate how similar the name of the author is
                    Related to a cast member of a mind bending movie
               As the lost pattern of whimsy gurgles like a puzzle of
          Light bulbs flashing with assumed direction but no
     Real goal in mind, but just on and on, etc, etc, etc,

Captured inside a tighter, messier ball than before
It can be dangerous
     To encounter something
     Thought provoking before sleep

Maybe you will have a couple of minutes of afterthought
     And then drift to Sleep
Or you may catch Insomnia caused by, and causing,
    A series of jumbled thoughts
Thoughts that change paths quickly, sharply and often

So they are crossing and weaving
     Going up and down, side to side
               Forwards, backwards, short and longways
                         Until you have an apparently infinitely tangled mess
                                   And that point a 9mm seems appropriate
                                             To clear out this heap that has kept you from
                                                       Much needed slumber for the past few hours
-Whew

Don't take this as a suicide attempt though
     No this is merely a desperate, fantasy of an attempt for some rest

The next plan may be to scream,
     as if jumping from a building
     Hoping that the thoughts would leave
     With the air from your lungs
Of course that would not work
     Seeing how breathe and ideas
     Come from different parts of the body
And your not so cruel to wake those who do manage to sleep

So now try to scream inside your head
     But really you want someone to hear it
     So the purpose (which I believe I no longer grasp) is defeated
Well, you could scream to yourself,
     Or God
     So someone knows what going on
But then out of now where arguments break out
     Upon realizing that you are fighting with yourself
     You fear a schizophrenic diagnosis
     And argue with God (if you haven't already)
     About why he gave you two personalities
          That fight each other into the wee hours of the night

Then your mind will just happen to wander
     From the quarrel
Analyzing the last point to come up
     Which drifts into a semi-related tangent
          Then wander to something some one did
               That this particular thought reminds you of
                    Maybe that meanders on ever to the actions
                         Of a character from some book you've read
                              And after rereading the book inside your head
                                   Go on and review everything you've read by the author
                              And relate how similar the name of the author is
                    Related to a cast member of a mind bending movie
               As the lost pattern of whimsy gurgles like a puzzle of
          Light bulbs flashing with assumed direction but no
     Real goal in mind, but just on and on, etc, etc, etc,

Captured in a tighter, messier ball than before
     Still no closer to falling into bliss and dreams
     Continuing a run around circle of red eyed agony

And what of Emotions
     Before it was a string
     With many frayed and loose ends
     All tied into a childish knot
Now add your emotions from the day
     A bunch of gunky wax and slime
You stuck with a coarse
                                                  stringy
­                                                                m­ushy
                                                            ­                  smelly
                                        ­                                                    tangled
     ­                                                                 ­                                        and damp
                            pile of sspthpthtphtphthhh (a.k.a. crap)

And the only things
     That seem a proper remedy
     For this pile of crap
     Are tranquilizers meant
     For animals much larger than you
     Or just a friendly bullet
     (One with a hollow tip to really clear out)

You know you could get up
     Read,
                 Write,
                              Watch some TV
But even though you are
     Completely awake and
     Fully alert
You are just too tired to up

But if by some miracle
     You do manage to just doze off
     This perpetual law of irony dictates
     That your alarm is not even
     Three moments from sounding

And in that ringing
     Is a true moment you may wish to have that bullet

with taffy wrapped across your scull for warmth,
you look at me in secret glances
—there, beneath your heavy eyelashes—that make my heart flutter so ironically
like the soft shake of my bed when snow drops from the sky in chunks.

you are still the same pile of bones
but flushed and grown,
still the same gentle glow, but now are close enough
for me to feel your warmth,
and for me to become wrapped inside of your exhale.

even if I am only using tears to hide from the wind,
they are better than bare-***** chill, or the helplessness
of true winter
, darkness
, space.

how full can one mug be of slowly climbing steam and the gentle loss of speech?
it rises until it is at the ceiling, and it sits there
taunting my empty lips with calm silence, embarrassed touches,
accidental movements
until we are only pretending to hide behind walls that we are only pretending exist.

I do not know how many times we will need to close our eyes
or how many times you will reach for my cold fingertips,
but these things are irrelevant
(immaterial)
(unrelated)
(extraneous)
(beside the point)
and the doors that come unlocked open to cliffs,
the steps we take cause us to fall eternally, spinning into blissful
"nothingness"/"somethingness."

there is no space between the lines we carve ourselves
unless we fall asleep too early
or we decide to go out for food instead of writing down our futures in pen.