Lying awake with my head on the opposite end of my bed trying to figure out what's up and what's down.
I've lost control again and I'm starting to think maybe I'm the guard and the prisoner.

They keep telling me you cannot hit lower than rock bottom and yet here I stand a little to close to the core of the earth.
Sweat dripping down my face and my eyes heavy with stress as I head straight into the magma and lava that awaits below me.

No one told me growing up would be this hard. That you would find yourself in sticky situations with money and love.
No one told me that sometimes you have to discipline yourself enough that you're stable and yet find the balance between work and play.

Tossing and turning my stomach is queasy and my head is throbbing from lack of sleep as I stare at the black ceiling above me.
Is there a way out of the darkness or should I hope that someday the answers will flicker on like a broken light bulb needing to be replaced?

No one told me growing up would be this hard.

I lie there with my eyes open,
The dreams carrying you relentlessly through every pore,
In the state of rest, my heart thrashes...
You hear me, baby?
The throes of an anguished singer.

The world can remain dead to my song,
The song might get lost inside the tomb of your heart,
But when it laps gently on the walls,
Don't you feel the flutter of a loved soul?
When it thrashes wild inside your heart,
Don't you hear the feel of your anguished singer?

My baby! I feel light and lifted,
The song gently kissing the pores skipped,
Ah! There I see a trace of light...
At the end of the tunnel a new song awaits...

I shouldn't have turned dear for that last look,
You didn't stop, yet I stopped,
Frail, I headed back...
The song squeaked, hoping to touch your heart...

I lay there, my body still,
Your steps echoing inside every pore,
My heart baby, beating fast,
I waited as you came across,
The steps halted but you walked past,
In the state of rest, my heart thrashes...
You hear me, baby?
The throes of an anguished loser.

Obviously
I read your words

Don't know what to say
Reality hurts

Won't write you back
Forbidden words

Know it *****
You're better off

You
(And I)
Have cast me out

It seems like the entire world knows
how to dance except for me.

There must be a metronome
that ticks the tempo
right out of the torso
of Mother Nature herself
but I cannot seem to tune in.
Everywhere around me
I can see a rhythm that refuses
to run through me like it somehow knows
that I am always going to be that one kid
left standing with my back against
the gym wall and the beat is just another club
that cannot afford to let any losers in.

I see the leaves—crisp hues of
yellow-bleeding-into-orange,
orange-bleeding-into-brown—
being directed by the air that they cut
as they learn to dance the American Waltz
left box, right box,
underarm turn,
hesitation step
spinning to the ground
and swell approaches the shore
carrying forward a small roar,
energy circling from deep to shallow,
waves shoaling, rising up,
moving along to the Foxtrot
feather step, three step,
natural turn,
hover cross
uncurling onto the shore.

But still, after all of these years,
I am here with shoulder blades pressed to cinderblocks
trying to tap into the meter while I tap my toe
inside of my shoe so the mountains will not shed rocks
like tears that come along with steady laughter.

Altogether, the night we wove
a trickled treasure, tangled:
skirted legs spilling out from
the teacup of a denim lap,
validation in the vacuum cove.

- Dusty Nikes before the dusk,
who art in heaven, my god
he thrusts.

- Why'd your mother
let you talk that way:
You smoke cliche cigarettes
in such an unfamiliar way.

- The hanger left welts, weeping
into post-relevance landline love,
body lay like the hands on the clock,
copper landmarks seeping.

What a feeling, ever so same.
Arched eyebrows, a trademarked shame:
like a fighter, like ****** oozing.
Like a functional inability,
divine in its losing.

A dream is dead, only work remains.
No splendid deeds of creative worth;
or even ones of pure mediocrity.
So bury my mind and body
in the dirt.
I may still be living;
but my mind's inert.

Goodbye pen, paper,
notes and words.
My spirit is
Split and burned.

I was a fool to
think I'd ever be
more than a fool.

Goodbye; This life
grows too cool.