Sleep escapes me.
I've felt feint clues of what laid dormant in my mind for so long.
The chemical key unleashed it and now.
Now I'm consumed by it.
In the waking hours it stabs.
Stabs.
Stabs!, at the frontal cortex of my brain like a railroad spike being driven into the ground.
The tears, the feelings, they've all floated away before the coming storm.
The mixture of taurine, caffeine, sugar, and citric acid has a slight burn as it slides down my throat.
It's been raining for a month.
Everyday I walk through it.
I let the droplets drip down my lenses.
It somehow adds a small bit of feeling, a short moment of tranquillity watching them slowly stream across the front of my eyes.
I reach the cafe, the same spot everyday.
I pretend to read but I spend hours watching the ripples form on the sidewalk through window pane.
This is the second, third day without slumber.
Vision is less clear with each passing hour.
No matter, it's still there in my mind.
And now I'm in public there's no escape.
Is this all I am now? Is this all there is?
I wonder what she's doing? I wonder who she's doing?
She's so cold anyway, no passion for life.
I'm the same in some ways but at least I'm taking initiative, taking steps to improve, at least I don't settle for the mundane.
She wasn't good for you!
I keep convincing myself over and over.
The repetition itself is maddening!
Sleep escapes me.
I need sleep to escape.
She's not in my dreams anymore.
She wasn't good for me.

you are paper,
let yourself be crumpled,
and then tell me stories
about your creases, your scars;
memories living in jars

tell me how it hurt
to be molded impetuously
because you still feel pain
when your wrinkles look like veins,
fragile streaks of vulnerability
flowing within you,
all over you,
and i will tell you
that i could not care less
if you are a mess of crooked roads;
if you are no longer like the others
devoid of folds
because these folds define you,
and the others do not crumple
in the same way as you do

you are paper,
skinned from nature
let yourself be written,
and then tell me stories
about yourself, your tales
without ever having to use a pen

We all know the story of a blade to sensitive skin, hiding an even more emotional soul. What they do not know is how the blade is so out of place. It isn't wanted there. We all know the outcome a sliced arm and a shattered soul.
Its like reading a book and never wanting it to end in fear of finding out the ending, whether they do get together, or whether they did actually die or it was all a dream. We don't want to know, we want to keep imagining their lives and their adventures.
So why is my favourite series written all over my body, but not in a language anyone can understand?

I've forgotten the last time I had to memorize
oh wait, it was today.
I memorized so I didn't have to plagiarize
and I plagiarized because I had no idea what to say.

instead of studying, I was out at play
breaking ankles instead of pencil tips.
made some gnarly 3 pointers, I might say,
all I could think about were my papercut lips.

the keyboard fights me with whips
I'm trying, I am really trying,
but I'm collapsing, like sunken battleships.
Well, at least I'm not dying.

On a power line,
a bird nest lies-
two chicks wait.