the witching hour is upon me
my eyelids are heavy
but never drooping
for the past two years I've been tired
but unable to sleep
without jane or jack
but **** man
those jokers will only take a man so far
and in my case it was to a lot of nights
in a bad situation - dead to the world
or waking up in a haze - unable to remember anything
but I know this double bed feels continents wide
and in it I feel small and vulnerable
there's a fine line between independence and loneliness
and I already used that line on you
trying to get you to keep me company
no ***
or fooling around
deep rapid breaths and the sweet smell of sweat in the air
just somebody to sleep with
to feel their warmth and my warmth reflected back
God
I am tired

I pulled that dusty shoebox
From underneath the bed ,
Letters we had written
On the day that we had wed.

We talked about forever
And promised to be true,
Youd be good to me
And id be good to you.

I read and re read those letters
Trembling , clamy hands
I was not this women,
And you are not this man.

Why does time make change ok,
Stop simple things we used to do.
The way youd show your love for me or
How id show my love for you.

You should always hold
My hand, and make me feel my best,
I  should always be your rock,
We both just want respect.

Mabye we just need reminding
Of how it all began, to pick our battles better, and offer steady hands.

I tucked those letters safely
Into a book beside the bed ,
In that dusty shoebox
theyre not getting read .

I'm trying to get back in the flow
of feeling consistently constant
to blow my mind out
back to something cosmic
Made of star stuff
and spangled banners
bellowing my brains out
trying to wrack something
worthy of your attention

You just get so lost in your ego
it's hard to love yourself
before you put the world first
on your shoulders
and let go of
what was dragging you down
barreling passed all the borders
The self imposed prophecies
of invading the privacy
of your broken paranoia
are you even following yourself?

When you get to point
of writing it out
trying to sort out the madness
to make the next step
and process the enlightenment

Someone left the light on
in the attic of Heaven
calling
back to the stars
where they made up stories
of legends

Am I truly an artist  
If I do not speak from lucidity?

Am I truly an artist
If my words do not keep me awake?

Am I truly an artist
If my art flows from a concoction of ability, timeliness, and boredom?

Am I truly an artist
If there is a struggle to find words left in these veins?

Am I truly an artist
If there is nothing more to say?