Dreamer, dreamer,
you always wake up as if you haven't slept,
and all it is that you've kept...
the fatigue of your trials,
the soreness of your miles,
the torment of the lifestyles.

Your sleep is all dreams,
stemming out from your river of life like streams.
You dream of everything that you can't do,
and what the world deems impossible.
Incomprehensible,
to everyone but you.

Dreamer, dreamer,
is there anyone to watch over you in your slumber?
They could give you a number,
of the hours of your rest.
It's long enough to slip into dreaming,
but lately it's seeming,
not enough to give you energy.

Dreamer, dreamer,
if you ever sleep enough, if you ever don't dream,
you'll notice the fatigue doesn't go away,
but you hope it will anyway.

You're scared to find out,
so you keep on restricting your time in bed,
even though it's slowing down your head.
I don't have a doubt,
you're tired beyond dreaming.

Dreamer, dreamer,
there are things to take for your rest.
You try your best,
oh dreamer, you do,
but there are some things you just can't do.

Dreamer, dreamer,
how do you do it?

When your body is under the weather,
your eyes are foggy and dead like leather,
and those eyes keep raining, pouring, and dribbling down the sides of your sunken face,
like it's a race to see which droplet will come in first place.

The pitter-patter on your lap of the rain falling from above
feeds a pool forming between your thighs and your stomach.

The weathermen keep on reporting storms.
At least you have some warning.
The lightning flashes and blinds you,
and the thunder clashes and deafens you.

You can't hear the world around,
you're too drowned.

We haven’t spoken since March.
Now, isn’t that perfectly depressing?
I think about it a lot.
I think about it while I stare out of the bus windows,
While I let everything rush in and pile on top of me…
the images and trees flitting by…
the flashes of memories of your face, your smile, and your voice.

Everything about you is right beside me,
but I know you’re not really here.
You would never stay around me this long, right, friend?
I’d stay beside you, right there…
maybe forever, if that’s what you need.

Your ungainly hug still leaves warm spots on my shoulders and my side.
I swear that I can still feel you leaning against me.
I know I can still feel the painful knot in my throat, which I tried to hide.
Your embrace:
it made me feel shorter than you, even though we were the same height,
and it made me feel warm even though I was cold,
when it was around eighty degrees Fahrenheit.
It almost made me happy, but I also wanted to cry.
Because it was making me really see that I was saying goodbye.

Give me the courage to alter my mind;
give me the tolerance to revamp what has been intertwined,
deep within the tangle of my twisted heart and my aberrant judgement.
I need the diligence to become what people wish, and become content
with simply being as they want.
It will not matter: the severity of my becoming gaunt.

I need your truthful words,
untouched by filthy lies,
flying from your mouth like graceful and pure birds.

With your speech,
tell me I can change!
My filthy, mendacious walls, you breach,
with the promise that I will change.

Strip the cloth off of my scarred skin,
to show me what has been,
of scarred and bruising flesh,
so that I can feel it afresh.
A reminder that I must become something else.

Please talk to me again so that I can remember who I am torturing myself for.
Give me more- give me more-
more- more of a reminder!
For you, I'll be a beggar,
begging on the road for you to repair my soul,
begging for you to make me whole.

Dizzying intoxication,
torturous obsession,
what could a fourteen-year-old know about addiction?

It never stops,
for one,
it's like an ugly mythological cyclops,
with an eye only for a prize,
wishing it had two eyes,
so it could see more of the world.

Dizzying intoxication,
torturous obsession,
hooked on clenching jaws,
riding on the high of fixing each of the wicked flaws,

Who said that this is not an addiction?
A terrifying one, but maybe they all are...
Addicted to pain of emptiness, both physical and mental,
leaving nasty scar upon nasty scar.

I regret falling to the addiction,
of sick and thin,
but like I said, I'm here to win,
so I'll succumb to addiction...

Cough up your lungs and cough up your guts,
and heal up your cuts!
Sickness wracks your body,
your ribs show when you cough and gag.
Hold up your white flag,
because you surrender to the infection.

You're cut open and sewed shut,
prepare yourself for rejection.
You can't handle another infection.
Surgery can't fix you up inside,
this disease isn't attacking anywhere a doctor can reach,
nor any speech.

You're in ill health,
that creeps up with great stealth.
Your sickness is using your tongue
to choke out each lung,
while lying
and denying
that you're sick.

Throw the white sheets over your head,
you'll be with the dead,
because you have to surrender to the infection!
let it reside within your midsection,
because it will achieve perfection!

Once upon a time,
I taught myself to rhyme.

I would hum as I tried to climb,
and though the branches beneath my feet were hard,
from the ground by them I was barred,
and their marred bark seemed to melt into a part of me.

I taught myself to rhyme
when I lay awake at night,
and wished I could take flight.