i hear your teeth grind in your sleep
(it keeps keeping me awake)

i hope you're dreaming happy dreams tonight
(i hope i bring you happy dreams)

my nightmares have been having nightmares
(i might never fall asleep)

my hands crave your hands, in mine, held tight
(it's hard to make it through the night)

there are
six-hundred ways
to get ****** up
and i am stuck
and conflicted
and sober

once you get that high,
there is no where to go
but down...
       down...
       down...

in weight
in grades
in friends
in money
in days

but you don't care
(unless you're sober)
so you stay
******
until you're forced to stop
                                or
                                until
                                you
                                are
                                                                     dead.

today i did not get out of bed
today i do not feel like writing poetry,
or finishing my novel,
or being productive

today i am my scars,
today i am my thoughts,
today i am exactly what terrifies me
and makes me not want to
breathe, today

i am an artist whose mind simply no longer works
it just stumbles around, falls down, comes to
never says where it's been, and then slips back asleep,
just to dream of a higher, more sweet point of view

my paraphasia brain is filled with disdain,
heavy-laden with woes, vexation, and shame
awaiting a moment of rest, away from this stress
where i'm dreaming a brand new dream, within a dream

where i'm ready to spill out rhymes, in quick time
before the clock runs out of ticks, and out of tocks
just give me some rest... i'll lay my weary head to rest
and upon waking up, i will be free of writer's block

the holy books say polyester is bad
but the falsified material felt warm
in the cold of the reaper's air

my veins didn't ache like they used to
instead, they rushed warm
even on nights spent asleep in metal boxes

i don't know how we slept
yet, something about your arms
brought a sense of lingering calm

how many ER trips does it take to show that i'm serious? that i never came into this world ready to push forward? when i said i was the phoenix, i intended for you to know that i had to burn myself down to nothing but ashes. i still promise that i will rise from the ashes i made of myself, ascend, and shine so bright that i blind those around me from all of the horrible darkness and show them the light... i am here. i have purpose. i refuse to consume myself, wholly. i am not a part. i am the ever eternal presence. i can not be removed. when our souls come into contact, i am anew. i'm reminded fully of who i am. i hold responsibility, here. in the white space, i make the conscious choice to push forward. my eyes open, and i see things that even you don't.

i am here and i am aware. the water pours over my head, drips down my face relentlessly... a waterfall across my skin. i feel awake. i feel alive.

how do you write
when you're
barely able to feel

when emotions turn to
wind
and desperation

if you listen
ever so closely
the melody comes in

the leaves whisper
to me
all night, long,

i forgot where i was
but i think i'm coming to,
while coming up

i'll cling to my writing
like coffee
and cigarettes

if i cut my hand open
and bled out
on to the page
for you
and you alone;
would you love me?

if i spewed
endless streams
of hideous
and beautiful
words;
would you love me?

if i dressed up
the right letters,
if i made them look
light enough
to hide the dark;
would you love me?