I'm so tired all the time,
wishing it was my bedtime
So uninspired and heavy
my thoughts push my head further into the pillow
gravity hooks its steel claws into my skin keeps dragging
my mind keeps lagging
my eyes sting and cry
perhaps I need a lullaby?

I'm so tired all the time,
my eyelids are in a constant fight
against the glowing light
i feel all this guilt as I sink further into my quilt

Why do my limbs feel numb and my limbs like they will collapse
perhaps I should get up?
I'm just so tired all the time,
yet why can I not sleep when I'm already in this deep


I'm so tired all the time,
perhaps this time if I close my eyes
sleep will creep upon me

Having these amazing feelings invade my mind.
Trying to find something I don’t believe is there.
These feelings are of wondrous kind.
But often lead to dispair.

They set forth a perpetual emotion of wonder.
Something that warms my heart.
A feeling that hits me like thunder.
I’m afraid I’ve been hit by cupids dart.

So intertwined around it’s core.
So lost in such a familiar setting.
But you’re the one I adore.
And these feelings are so unforgetting.

This feeling is sometimes unbearable.
But most of the time it’s not so terrible

I Am So Grateful [Anybody Reads This Stuff]



I am so grateful anybody reads this stuff.

Exasperated that most others don’t.

And even with an inner miff

I carry on, pushed by an inner drift,

(some would add an inner gift)

Ambition not my motivation.



A brainstorm popping from wherever popping up pops up from.

You will recall it’s happened to you all;

You know, thoughts over which you’d no control.

And yet you thought them, acted out on

Drives beyond what’s called

Free will.



So, am I grateful or detached?

Dispassionate, disinterested, crosshatched?

Standing alone from strength

Yet obstinate from weakness’ lack of confidence.

I’m sure of this:  the length

Of life that’s left to me,

I will persist in poetry.

(One must

When it lies in the guts)

Tampering with syntax, spelling, yummy slang,

Choice aesthetics in good taste/

Choices ****** and a waste;

Writing with a rhythmic sense,

Caring very much for tense,

But not for meters recherché;

I, utmost mystic and most earthy:

Quelle dichotomy!

Hypocrisy?  No, contrast only!



I am grateful for and to the one

That read Ms Corwin.



I Am So Grateful 11.14.2017

The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative; I Is Always We Is You;

Arlene Corwin

It's the night before an exam,
And the rhymes and rhythms,
are screaming in my head,
as the mountain of rejected paper,
grows around me.
Because as I try to voice,
my horrors and hatreds,
my love and life,
politically and emotionally,
all I can think about is that,
at thirteen I was scrawling,
pretty patterns across my skin,
and using my blood as the paint,
                                                          ­      how messed up is that?

“christina”
“teacher?”
“marina"
“anna”. twice.
i’ve only noticed your eyes today.
i’ve worn them for a year.
how interchangeable we are. how replaceable.
maybe if I began to wear
a purple hat or something
people would remember.