What is it about summer nights that seem to stir the insomniac inside of me?
Is it the warm weather that wakes him from hibernation?
The feeling of despair at 1:09 does not help instead it encourages the tossing and turning whenever i try to rest my head.
Maybe its the nostalgia and memories that keep me awake as I remember all of the wasted conversations of trying to keep him alive.
Trying to keep him interested, trying to make him see that life is worth living even when its 3am and you know you need sleep.
Maybe its the loneliness that hurts worse than a dull blade in my chest because shes not lying beside me
The absence of her warmth and her unconscious way of clinging on to me no matter how many times i roll over.
Maybe its the words of the world breathed only when it 2:32 that keep me awake, begging me to listen to their stories because no one else will.
Mainly its the feeling that theres more to do and sleep can wait luring me into the trap of sleep deprivation which awaits the crankiness that will crave coffee in about 3 hours.

My poetry does not flow through me
Its not a river, its never constant and always flowing
It is instead a dam.
Storing and storing until a night like this causes a crack and everything starts to trickle out and then all at once, flooding everything in its path

Stagnant like a rock. That's how i feel right now like i can’t move until the rain withers me down and lets the current carry me away.

My words can start fights,
That's why i often do not share them.
They will pin you to the ground and spit in your face till you’re shaking.
My words know not when to stop, instead they’re consistent and will leave bruises the shade of agony.
The syllables that spill out will cut you till you’re left a ****** mess and you will wish you never knew my name.
I do not speak to you because I’m afraid of you,
I don’t speak to you because even my words know you’re not worth the time.
- Good Riddance