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Boring Bex Apr 2013
My secrets are burning a hole through my heart
And my bones catch a fever
When it cuts you up this deep
It's hard to find a way to breathe

Your eyes are swallowing me
Mirrors start to whisper
Shadows start to see
My skin's smothering me
Help me find a way to breathe

Time stood still
The way it did before
It's like I'm sleepwalking
Fell into another hole again
It's like I'm sleepwalking

I'm at the edge of the world
Where do I go from here?
Do I disappear?
Edge of the world
Should I sink or swim?
Or simply disappear?

Your eyes are swallowing me
Mirrors start to whisper
Shadows start to see
My skin's smothering me
Help me find a way to breathe

Seeing as time stood still
The way it did before
It's like I'm sleepwalking
Fell into another hole again
It's like I'm sleepwalking

Wake up!
Take my hand and
Give me a reason to start again
Wake up!
Pull me out and
Give me a reason to start again

Time stands still
Time stands still

Your eyes are swallowing me
Mirrors start to whisper
Shadows start to see
My skin's smothering me
Help me find a way to breathe

Time stood still
The way it did before
It's like I'm sleepwalking
Fell into another hole again
It's like I'm sleepwalking

Time stood still
The way it did before
It's like I'm sleepwalking

All Credits to Bring Me The Horizon.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lir3dzYIhz0
Asphyxiophilia Feb 2014
For me, love has always been like sleepwalking. I never remember how I get there but there are always footprints behind me in the snow that appear to be the same size as my own. Somehow I ended up there again, with my face turned upward and the wind kissing it. Whoever compared love to warmth was lying. It is cold. It is the inch between solid ground and frozen lake that you can't see. It is the fog that clings to the tops of trees and softly whispers your name. It is the frost on your window that reminds you how easily things can break. The worst part of falling in love is falling out of love. The worst part of sleepwalking is waking up.
You woke up.
Cameryn Rogers Dec 2016
Sleepwalking through life.
Sleepwalking through strife.
Daydreaming about happier times,
Then you came into my life.

I've never known this joy
Stemmed from the love of a boy,
Who holds me close and makes me smile--
My heart he won't destroy.

Stay in my life. Keep me awake.
My heart is yours; it's yours to take.

My reviver-- that's what you are.
My awakener-- brighter than any star.

Sleepwalking is no more because of who you are.
Jonathan Witte Oct 2016
I

She’s sleepwalking again,
my nine-year-old daughter,
who shares the bedroom
with her sister down the hall.
She’s kicked off the covers
and wandered downstairs,
somnambulant, her bare feet
moving as though in a dream
across the kitchen’s linoleum
floor to the back of the house.
The porch door smacks shut—
a gunshot—and she is gone.

For a time, I watch her from
the open bedroom window.
Her diaphanous nightgown
absorbs August moonlight.
She steps slowly, a pale flame
floating across the back field,
the wiregrass up to her knees,
avoiding a copse of redbuds,
skirting shrubs and stones.

When her small figure succumbs
to shadow at the edge of the trees,
I put on my bathrobe and follow.

II

At first, she is lost to me.
I break into a delirious run,
scratched on my cheek
by a redbud branch.
Reaching the tree line,
I see her standing still,
shoulders stooped,
a luminous cattail
bending down.

She hovers above a sleeping fawn,
the warm bundle curled at her feet.
I contemplate the white spots
scattered on fur, thinking, velvet stars.

But when I place a hand
on my daughter’s shoulder
I see blood flowing fresh
from the doe’s abdomen;
red entrails slipping out,
pooling on pine needles.
Stepping closer, I remember a moment
earlier that evening: a jar of preserves
spilled carelessly on the kitchen’s stone counter,
the soft dishtowel soaking scarlet in my hand.

At the edge of the creek, a second doe
watches us with opaque, joyless eyes.
My daughter puts her finger to her lips;
the doe tenses, blinks, and bolts away.

I lift my daughter and carry her carefully
home, her head buried in my shoulder,
blades of grass clinging to my bare feet.

III

My daughters' room:
holding her in weak arms, poised
to lay her on top bedcovers,
I notice her sister’s empty bed,
neatly made, the blankets smooth
and tight across the mattress.

An anemic moth bangs
against the window pane.

The light flicks on and suddenly
I am awake, remembering all of it:
the dry diagnosis, the slow whir
of hospital machines, the smell
of old flowers, and somewhere
in my daughter’s stomach,
the cruel mathematics
of cells metastasizing.

My wife stands in the doorway,
her hand on the light switch.
My arms are empty. I gaze
down and see our daughter
nestled under covers,
breathing softly, asleep.

I see the pale white skin of my clean bare feet.

You’re sleepwalking again, my wife says.
She touches my unsullied cheek, hooks her
fingers through mine, and shuffles me down
the hall to bed. Head sinking into the pillow,
I gaze out the open bedroom window and weep.

The moonless sky cradles its constellations:
bright grains of salt scattered on soapstone;
my hand trembles, unable to wipe them away.
ji Dec 2015
Getting up on mornings without you is not waking,
just loveless man sleepwalking.
there was  little cow he was black and white
and he used to sleep walk whenever it was night
he wandered all around walking in his sleep
all around the meadow then in among the sheep
he wandered through the dale and all along the glen
then he would turn around and walk back home again
back in to his bed the little cow would creep
the he would settle down and fall back fast asleep
Woody Aug 2016
My brother left his radio on
and in my sleep I got the blues
so I struck out in the direction
of my spit and the moon
sleepwalking, a man overboard
into the dark sea of dreams
as the nightwatchman on the docks
closed his pocketwatch with a sigh
watching my ship leave as night
put her coins over my eyes,
and I have forgotten the past I
used to know like the back of my hand,
the island I come from, which flag I fly.
Peter Sierant Jun 2010
I awake to the midnight morning

of sleepwalking



the thumping of my soul deep in the

morning twilight



children slumber under their

dark covers as I emerge



from dreams of hope and despair

under my bittersweet tongue



their slumber

and mine



expectant and hopeful

anxiety ridden in our own way



blessed am I to unfold

during the AM hours



of morning radio

cold floors and



oil black

coffee of the watchman’s variety



alive to hear my strange thoughts

and my children safe but for a moment



as I sleepwalk

in darkness
losersmind Jun 2014
You’re searching through my bloodshot eyes, trying to find me.
You’re staring right into me,
but you can’t see me clearly.
Knocking on my door,
there’s no one home
and there hasn't been for a while.
I left a long time ago,
slowly faded away without a single soul noticing
until it was too late.  
You’re right in front of me
so why don’t you reach out and pull me back in?
Can you hear my desperate cries for help?
I think you’re touching my face now,
it feels like you’re trying to reach into my brain;
you’re trying to figure what’s going on inside my mind
but there’s something in the way.
Something’s taking me over and not letting you in.
Who am I?
Baby, do you know?
Do you remember who I really am,
the person I was before the poison,
the man behind the mask?
You’re staring into me with those eyes glazed over
and I die a little more with each passing moment.
Baby, I'm begging you to please save me
but I know all your efforts will go to waste.
I’m stuck sleepwalking
and no matter how hard you try,
you can’t wake me up.
PC classic Sep 2014
He was sleepwalking through life.

She came like a beautiful dream

and

now he doesn't want to wake up

ever.
Zoe Sanders Jan 2015
It's funny.
How your bed can be your best friend or your worst enemy
How it contains your worst nightmares and most splendid dreams
And how awful it is.
That people don't know how you feel
when you wake up and you still think the demons are real

Morning after morning I'm in fear when I wake
Trying to calm down fearing what it will take
and when I look back on what i did while I slept
I shake.

Because I cannot trust myself
While I am asleep.
Melanie Cruz Sep 2015
Independence is our cry,
pride is our name.
We are all separated by countries and oceans,
but our mindset is one and the same.

The concept of change, we fear;
the idea of an altered lifestyle haunts us,
but the awareness that our home is binding our thoughts
remains as our threshold away from the darkness.

You board the plane, begin to set sail, put on your best shoes and run
away from the chaos, breaking the chains, stating your name to be free.
Your heart is racing as the grasp of new land is just miles within your reach
the only words your mind can make up in that moment are “¡Libre soy alfin!”

The moment is just minutes away now, you can almost feel la tierra
El momento is almost here and you just want to chant “¡LIBERTAD!”
But you can’t. You’re not there yet, only growing more eager.
You’re impatient now; what happened to the claridad?

What happened to that clarity in your mind when you were so sure of what you wanted?
It has been replaced by the fear of not being enough.
It has been replaced by the fear of getting sent back to that confinement you once called home.
Now you realize this new life will be tough.

You step foot en la tierra libre,
the anxiety gets to your bones.
Thoughts race through your mind
there’s disbelief that this is your new home.

The sensation of wandering on clouds,
sleepwalking your life away is overwhelming;
your eyes now resemble that oceanic pathway
whilst los abrazos de abuela you are yearning

The concept of change we fear;
the idea of an altered lifestyle haunts us,
and the awareness that our family is still stitched at the lips
has become our allure back into the darkness.

But independence is our cry,
pride is our name.
Precincts may separate us,
yet our mindset remains one and the same:
¡Que viva la libertad!
Woody Dec 2017
From time to time
I go walking down
some river or another
when the moon
wears a patch
over his left eye
like a pirate
in tall boots
thinking of the black
fumes of my dreams
and half under water
there's a chimney
driftwood, broken
oars and lost lures
floating in the flue
the current drawing
them up the fireplace
like smoke, standing
alone like a stone
tree, the house
burned long before
the river rose, still
I walk down
the levee, like
a high grave raised
for a pharaoh
I keep coming down
them talking
to the night
holding both arms
before me sleepwalking.
PC classic Oct 2014
He was sleepwalking through life.

She came like a beautiful dream.

Maybe that's why waking up was so hard.
Lexi Guffey Oct 2018
Wake me up
I'm laying down restless and rising exhausted,
sleepwalking where I should be inspired.

desire to change
need to escape
slowly drowning in the inevitable,
oxygen just out of reach.

smother my thoughts
suffocate spirit,
take passion and turn it mindless.

I don't feel much anymore,
my mind alive in catacombs.
tear me apart
//red//
break me down
//glass//
at least it’s not indifference
//grey//

lonely tile nights,
the voices in my head
don't scream as often anymore.

wake me up
hold me tight (you’re not alone)
know my name (you’re not alone)

this is not the story of insanity -
I'm taking my mad back
as I'm crawling from the underground,
giving voice to where I'm from.

let silence succumb to authenticity,
let pain fade into strength.
I'm rebuilding from self destruction,
tearing down the walls I set.

recovery revival renewal
maybe I'll feel something again.
until then
I am looking in the mirror to hold on,
I am screaming toward the empty,
reminding myself to be real;
hoping that my voice uncensored,
filled with truth,
laced with fire
will echo through the city that surrounds me,
ricochet through the hearts of those who need to hear:
this is not the end
this is not the end.

wake me up
I only know how to disappear.
Vivian Elise Jun 2015
She had that sleepy dreamy-eyed glow to her
And I fell as Icarus
She was my Daedalus
My parachute catalyst
As I fell from the light of sun
With my melted wax wings
I fell and and I fell deep
In to her quiet seas
The sense of a sneeze or incoming flash back brought you to your knees
Murky deeps in which I found myself so enthralled with you
That I saw our story as a definite artifact
More precious than the pearls at the bottom of your seas
I found comfort in between your smile lipped teeth
( as I made a nest in between the nook of your face and neck)
They hate the shadow of the bird
over the high water of the white cheek
and the conflict of light and wind
in the salon of the cold snow.

They hate the bodiless arrow,
the precise handkerchief's farewell,
the needle that keeps the pressure and the rose
in the cereal blush of the smile.

They love the blue desert,
the swaying bovine expressions,
the lying moon of the poles,
the water's curved dance at the shore.

With the science of tree trunk and street market
they fill the  clay with luminous nerves
and lewdly skate on waters and sands
tasting the bitter freshness of their millennial spit.

It's through the crackling blue,
blue without worm or a sleeping footprint,
where the ostrich eggs remain eternal
and the dancing rains wander untouched.

It's through the blue without history,
blue of a night without fear of day,
blue where the **** of the wind goes splitting
the sleepwalking camels of the empty clouds.

It's there where the torsos dream under the gluttony of grass.
There the corals soak the ink's despair,
the sleepers erase their profiles under the skein of snails
and the space of the dance remains over the final ashes.
Akemi Aug 2014
Everyone’s sleepwalking through city square
It’s twelve fifty seven
And seventy families have bled black against Israel’s rockets

Come Sunday morning
The drunks in my hometown
Will be too hungover to recognise their own faces
While Palestinians across the world
Will have to sort through the bones of dead relatives

This country was built on colonial empathy
Freedom from suffering through self-absorbed apathy

We’re all sewn to our seats
Caring for nothing
12:57am, August 27th 2014

There are things of greater importance than ourselves that need addressing. Like the genocide of Palestinians, and the media blackout of it.
just like you
could feel my fever
when it broke

i could feel
your fever
when it broke

i wept
like the ocean
for a few nights

you told me
to tell you
the truth

that's
what i'm
craving too

we're far
but i hear
your consciousness tonight

these bodies are broken down boats
our souls though
are still being

held
above
water
bamboo bean.
I'm way past my bedtime
Losing balance, veering to the right
Before I hit the wall
Or the cabinet or the floor
Where did this jelly come from?
I thought I had it down
It wants to come up
So let's help him up
He's already drowned
Twice we drowned him
But they kept coming up

A man I once knew
...he was a professional man...
He should have known what he was talking about
I thought he did
More often than not
I trusted him
Law and natural fact
I could see the love in his eyes
He was convinced the cessation of my problem
Was it's light dying and silently slipping off
Into the air
My, oh my, I must not have been paying attention

Another hour passed
My mind was worked up
Worked up professionally
With pure quality workmanship
But it's not gonna last
I don't care
If they invested millions of dollars
You god, Oh Mighty Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick
I'm just gonna fall asleep
I'm a-gonna sleep until I wake
And I ain't a-gonna wake up until
I'm good and ready

He seemed to know what he spoke of
He was, after all, wearing a doctor's coat
After all, he had a silver-pearl stethoscope hanging around his neck
I was tempted to believe he was a great physician
But I wasn't so sure he was a Good Doctor
Not a very good one
The only sawbones I could afford
He told me that I'm very selfish
But not to worry, he said
"All bipolars are like that
All that they see is filtered through
ME ME ME ME ME".

So I had to think about it for awhile
I had to rub it in my clay-hands brain
Until I understood it to be truth
My hardening heart beats only for me
Prayers found me on my knees
Knelt
Until my legs fell asleep
Circulation staunched, the numbness
I tried to rise and walk
I tried to rise and walk
"Come forth!" I heard. "Rise and WALK!"
I tried to rise and walk
I TRIED
Fell down three times
It was like skating in an ice rink
The pulsating music of KISS throbbing through the loudspeakers
(It was that disco knock-off they took to the charts)
I was the kid who got knocked down
I know that funny man didn't mean to run over my hand with his skate
Accidents happen
(Even if the Good Doctor says that's all a bunch of crap)
I lifted my hand to my face
I felt nothing
I thought perhaps it would take some time to kick in, that there would come a moment when the pain would crash over me tsunami-style. It would overcome me, and at that point I would not be screaming at myself anymore but at everyone. I'd curse them because they were there. I'd **** them for no good reason whatsoever. Wrong place, wrong time. Unlucky twins. God knows them not, nor vouches them for His. One is chosen. The Other refused. ME ME ME ME ME. It is more cruel to be told this secret than to be kept in the dark.
Keep me in the dark.
Leave me alone.
Silence your Teaching Voice and let me sleep
Let me sleep in disbelief
Forget the part where I said,
"I ain't a-gonna wake up until I'm good and ready"

I've been put down
I'm held down to drown
Jelly air to fill my gills
No longer screaming
Abandoned my temple
To the banks of the Ohio
I gave the Good Doctor something interesting
To write in his reports
© 2010 by James Arthur Casey
Mike Hauser Jan 2016
as we move on through our day to day
heading who knows where
the hustle and bustle of the there about
seemingly without a care

the ups and down in this show of life
the taking of the offering
if we could see i think we'd find
that we mostly are sleepwalking

we slip and slide the routine
one foot in front of the other
along the way we eat and breath
so as not to blow our cover

making sense in all of this
mumbling as if talking
doing it like nobody's biz
the artful art of sleepwalking

wheeling as we're dealing
faking savoir faire
the sleepy path that we are on
is filled with our nightmares

we make our way through drowsy days
no hesitation in the balking
all we have made in this display
effortlessly sleepwalking
Hope Dec 2014
I slept until 4pm today
Dreaming of things the fingers of my memory
Can only scrape at.

Real life:
Phone rings. Belly aches. Cat bites. Siren howls.
Nothing matters.

Dream life:
Airport. Fog. You. Gone.
Nothing matters.

No. Rewind.

Real life:
Airport. Fog. You. Gone.
Everything matters.

“Don’t implode,” you said
before I shut your mouth with my own.

I disobeyed.
Nevermind Apr 2016
Sleepwalking people
No where to go
Weary eyes closed
Relying on some hope
Yet very aware
Of the harsh reality in which they live
Sleepwalking people
On the sidewalks adrift
Looking so lost
But sure all the same
Sleepwalking people
With no memories, no names
Tya Crosse Jan 2012
I'll sit here and play all the sad songs I know

And I'll remember again what It felt like

To be in your arms.

I'm missing you,

Not knowing when it all went wrong.

And I'll remember again the look

On your face when you woke

In the middle of the night

As you put your arms around me.

What it felt like to be loved

Unconditionally.

Realizing that I never took the time

To tell you I was hurting.
SøułSurvivør Feb 2016
i.

mist in solemnity
mutes the sounding
leather bells in silence


ii.

salt surges waste wantonly
gulls guttural in guises
of waifs


iii.

driftwood delivered dull of
deluged dilution
ochre offering to dune's
divestment


iii.

sea glass shivers into
shallow sandy pockets
scintillating color schemes


iiii.

conches lie abandoned
in stands of sea grasses
cacophonous quiet


v.

i am wide awake yet dreaming

sleepwalking

into the

waves




SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/1/2016
Some alliteration for my morning
Maya Martin Sep 2015
Explaining My Depression to My Mother: A Conversation
Mom, my depression is a shape shifter.
One day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear,
The next, it’s the bear.
On those days I play dead until the bear leaves me alone.
I call the bad days: “the Dark Days.”
Mom says, “Try lighting candles.”
When I see a candle, I see the flesh of a church, the flicker of a flame,
Sparks of a memory younger than noon.
I am standing beside her open casket.
It is the moment I learn every person I ever come to know will someday die.
Besides Mom, I’m not afraid of the dark.
Perhaps, that’s part of the problem.
Mom says, “I thought the problem was that you can’t get out of bed.”
I can’t.
Anxiety holds me a hostage inside of my house, inside of my head.
Mom says, “Where did anxiety come from?”
Anxiety is the cousin visiting from out-of-town depression felt obligated to bring to the party.
Mom, I am the party.
Only I am a party I don’t want to be at.
Mom says, “Why don’t you try going to actual parties, see your friends?”
Sure, I make plans. I make plans but I don’t want to go.
I make plans because I know I should want to go. I know sometimes I would have wanted to go.
It’s just not that fun having fun when you don’t want to have fun, Mom.
You see, Mom, each night insomnia sweeps me up in his arms dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stove-light.
Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company.
Mom says, “Try counting sheep.”
But my mind can only count reasons to stay awake;
So I go for walks; but my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists.
They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells reminding me I am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness I cannot baptize myself in.
Mom says, “Happy is a decision.”
But my happy is as hollow as a pin pricked egg.
My happy is a high fever that will break.
Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat-out asks me if I am afraid of dying.
No.
I am afraid of living.
Mom, I am lonely.
I think I learned that when Dad left how to turn the anger into lonely —
The lonely into busy;
So when I tell you, “I’ve been super busy lately,” I mean I’ve been falling asleep watching Sports Center on the couch
To avoid confronting the empty side of my bed.
But my depression always drags me back to my bed
Until my bones are the forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city,
My mouth a bone yard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves.
The hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes of a heartbeat,
But I am a careless tourist here.
I will never truly know everywhere I have been.
Mom still doesn’t understand.
Mom! Can’t you see that neither can I?
I do not own this poem! All credit goes to Sabrina Benaim. This might already have been posted a few times on this website, but I have always enjoyed this poem. So, here you go!
Anastasia M Oct 2013
Walking home, I neglect I am alive. Accustomed to the mundane, the rich hues in the sky evade me. My insides weep to be awoken once more; dance in the depths and soar in the heights. My soul is asleep. My heart trembles where lovers once occupied; If only I could fixate on what is true.

But I am asleep.
Jasmine Marie Jan 2013
Wake me up
I don't care how you do it
Or how dire the consequences

Kiss me
Shake me
Stab me

I promise I don't mind
Just please
Wake me up
WistfulHope Feb 2015
I tried to paint nothing today
but the blood dried too fast

I can't see clearly
the sun washed away the rain

Now the ravine is too deep
and I can't swim
(Genesis chapter 1:6 and God said: “Let there be a firmament in the midst of the water, and let the waters be divided by the water.” I never understood this statement, well not until I wrote this poem).
The ocean.
It’s just a wetter version of the sky
a graveyard' of poetry
that broke into my heart and open my eyes,
and I saw the brightest darkness mirror reading
handwritten dreams cuffing the stars consoling the rain
whom tears laugh

and in that laughter, I hear the words
God hates you
these insulting tears that only once god could hear
now speaks to me with warring tongues
and I had nothing deep to say
just a crushed sentence
a pile of regret
a sky that jumped on my train thought
and we went from an angelic blue to a halo of black.

God, I do apologize if you feel like I have displeased you.
See I have been searching for a weightless god
because the others are too heavy
and too weak like watered down gospel,
Weak like the dark side of poetry
Weak like a religious inside joke no one gets
Forgive me for you know everything I don't

so tell me am I a self-portrait of you and will you promise to
clean ***** lost souls like mine
and will u forgive me for having an enchanted mind
You see I often mistook you for a poem that has never been written
Mistook you for masculine words that became undone
I mistook you  for a selfless father that has more than one son
Mistook you for a sky filled with multiple sunsets.

I know nothing of you,
you unseen god
tell me am I of the other god
am I his fleshly creation standing outside my normal heartbeat
and on the footnotes of his story
standing breathing whirlwinds on death ears of soundless music
into the lungs of his bible
The lungs of his heaven that often resembles the blood stains in his hell

blood that flows throughout my veins and into an anthem of sorrow
Sung with broken tongues
sorrow buried in all kind if ancient languages
And I sit in this hell crying with roses
that's been wounded by his thoughts and
his words shoved into each other and I hate this

so much that I stripped down to pain and
I am exposed naked with caution
and I can see that my heart is a jealous god also
an egoistic ghost filled with love I never felt
a love that has no title

a love I am not entitled to feel
and why should I be
When that god knows I am a sleepwalking addict high off of pain
why should I be when that God knows I am as useless as a headless butterfly
When I should be more like the ocean
Yeah just a wetter version of the sky
The human body is made up of 75% water
(So in Genesis chapter 1:6 when God said “Let the water be divided by the water.” Where did that water go? It is in me).
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
On April 26th, 372 B.C. Plato was the first man to inflict injury upon his own dreams.
Not the forms casting shadows in his cave, his literal dreams.
At 6:35 a.m. the impish snarl of a water ***** crept into his Utopia of an
all-you-can-eat gyro cart overturned at the corner of his street and roused him
back to consciousness. The ingenious design of his Clepsydra quite obviously complete,
Aristotle came running with the awkward stride of a sleepwalking adolescent
to see what his master had done. When he arrived he saw flying,
two pots of water, an air-compressing submersible chamber and one water ***** reed.
Aristotle quickly collected the shattered pieces and noted
that this broken pottery was more real than time itself.

On September 21st, 712 A.D. a small village just outside the boundaries of
Chang'an, China came dangerously close to taking the life of the palace
astronomer/inventor/sleepyhead. Crowding around the door of Yi Xing, the
townspeople tore their robes and wailed for him to put a stop to the
incessant clanging. Xing, who had apparently overslept and was still
clinging to morsels of fading dreams about his young mistress, stuffed his
face into his pillow, muttering eureka, after first having chucked the
two clay pots, handful of stones and plate-sized gong out the front door,
much to the amusement of the assembly of drooping eyelids and torn pajamas.

In the year 1235 A.D. tortured residents of Baghdad began associating their
daily and nightly times for prayer with the ringing of their eardrums from
uninvited chimes.

In 1493 St. Mark's Clock-tower polluted the once-pure Venetian air with
hourly reminders that we are all yet one hour closer to our inevitable death
and the priests of the day called it humility.

Levi Hutchins of New Hampshire turned to a pine cabinet, brass clock and
mechanical gears in 1787, and for the first time gave himself the ability to
choose when he would hate the morning.

In 1847, French inventor Antoine Redier began making money off of people's
early morning auditory masochism.

Lew Wallace, the morning after completing his masterpiece novel "Ben Hur,"
awoke with a fiendish beeping in his ear and proceeded to invent the paradox
of the snooze button.

In Spring of 1942 the war in Europe raged and all U.S. alarm clock production ceased.

In the Spring of 1943 well-rested factory men, confronted by their foreman
upon arrival at 9:15, erupted the words "my alarm clock is broken,"
forever placing the excuse in the deep pockets of slackers
world-wide.

To all of these respected men of our history
Who have thought with their hands to create
The foundation of a society drowning in Starbucks,
I wish to express my sincerest ingratitude.

I lie awake in bed at night,
Licking the bitter taste of reality from my cheeks,
In the company of Plato, Lew Wallace and Yi Xing,
Wondering what dreams will be stolen from me.
Day 20
Freds not dead Mar 2011
I have a fever
And you came to me
Understood in a bubble
Of thought
In high heels and horns
You brought medicine
Made of
Hell water, burning cars,
Lipstick and the old feeling of butterflies
You really ****** me
I feel so much better but at what price?

You had a fever
And I had nothing to do with it

(Go to sleep lover)
(I’m not talking to anyone)
(or about anyone, no, no one’s on the phone)

Everything will mean as much as dreams

(we won’t make it)
(I love Barbie dolls)
(I love candy-truth)

You were intrigued
Tried me out like a riddle,
Read me like a magical spell
Gave up
And left me in the bottom of a plastic bag
With all the trash on the ocean floor of your car

You see spots of blood while you sleep
I diagnose you
But I never tell you how much
It breaks me.

— The End —