A poet is an insane asylum
     Of disfuctinal metaphors.

We're all a little crazy,
   How else could we


Write the things we do.

I.

A late night trip to the bathroom
shows a warped vision of myself
through a cracked mirror
it tells a story
through the dark circles
under my eyes.
It all tells me to sleep,
although that was already made clear
by my foggy mind and hazy vision.
I go back to bed
but when I close my eyes
I cannot see sleep in the future.
So instead I lay with my eyes open,
staring at the white ceiling.
It looks back at me,
harsh, unforgiving.
The storm outside
does nothing to help
quell the voices in my head.

II.

The voices in my head argue
and tell me that
everything is either all very clear
or a muddled swamp of metaphors.
And they have decided
my life is all one horrible metaphor
for childish infatuations
that could never be
that turn into a stronger feeling.
I tell them to try and be quiet
because I’m trying to sleep,
but they do not quiet.

III.

They do not quiet,
they never do.
Quiet is a warm hug
and space in my head.
Quiet is muted murmurs
creeping up stairs
and slipping through keyholes.
But they do silence.
Silence is deafening.
It lures and traps me in a cage
where I am unable to breathe.
It is a force that stops me
from being human,
it is all consuming.
That is why I let them stay,
because I prefer the chaotic cacophony
of voices
to silence.
They never stop.

IV.

Never stop dreaming
is what everyone says
but I think I did
when I stopped being able to sleep.
The clock blinks 4:32
and so maybe it’s more
early morning than late night,
but is there really a difference?
I’ve given up,
maybe I’ll sleep tomorrow night
instead.
And when they all ask
if I’m okay,
I’ll just tell them
it was a late night.

V.

It was a late night,
I was kept awake by
the voices in my head.
They do not quiet,
They never stop.
It was a late night.

You are the wind in my sails,
the only thing that keeps me moving
in this vast ocean of nothingness.

You are my heaviest blanket,
something to hide beneath
when the shadows create monsters on the wall.

You are the rising sun,
reminding me that dawn will come again
even after the darkest of nights.

You are my old, worn teddy bear,
always there when I'm in need of comfort
in a dark and empty house.

You are the dandelion growing in a crack in the sidewalk,
showing me that life can flourish
even in the most desolate times.

You are not my world,
but everything worth living for.

So no, darling. "I love you" doesn't cut it.

The grandfather clock ticks away! day after day, everyday ,
it doesn't stop to listen to the baby gurgling, or the toddler screaming
indifferent to the many sounds of  angst and ecstasy!

the small hand of the clock controlling every hour of our lives
the big hand, a mere spectator to the brevity of those moments lived
the silent ticking of the pendulum,
  a call to take a second of respite!
from life, from living, from only "just existing"

I did try to stop time once, held the hands of the clock in my own calloused ones
and that is when the Townclock  chimed somewhere, faraway!

A photograph of a girl,
with dark hair and a bright smile.
And overtime, over pictures, you see her unfurl.

A smile, and a glimmer in her eye,
her rosy cheeks stretch into a smile, with her arm around her friend,
the change is hard to deny.

A week ago, hollow cheeks and bright hair,
dried from the bleach and dye,
when did she fall into the depths of despair?

Empty eyes with no hope,
and a plain, faked grinned,
her decline is a slippery *****.

She falls further down,
gripping to the sides,
as she tumbles and tumbles and tumbles.