Sleeping Awake

Routines and stale coffee,

keep the thoughts aligned,

chased by wild days and obscene nights,

dialing in like a microscope,

but the light is always on.

I go about my day in normal rhythm,

one thing or another, there are infinite tasks,

rushing here and there, doing this and that,

like Russian doll, ever enfolding,

but the light remains on.

What if now, instead,

I force the light and colors to saturate,

And bake in a warm glow of life,

letting it fill in edges unknown?

And before you want

You must hope

And hope

Is increasingly fleeting

Everyone has an opinion

Advice

A lecture

A vice

Sometimes the former creates the latter

More often than not

What would I know

This isn’t advice

Nor a lecture

I am scared to sleep.

Is there even a point now?

When what I am met with is more of this reality?

Dreaming used to be an escape.

Now it's a sentence.

Sometimes it differs.

Some nights are reminisced.

Others are pain.

I couldn't tell you which is actually real and what is not now.

Everything is warping,

yet it's never been clearer.

I can't tell if it's a good thing,

or damning.

She looked up from her task at hand. She waited.

“You’re not you. This isn’t you.” A frustrated sigh “Is there even a point in talking to you now? I just don’t understand. What changed?”

She blinked.

“Everything.”

She turned back to her work. The sounds of retreating footsteps haunted the empty room.

She smiled to herself.

How interesting they didn’t see her death,

And that they too, took part in it.

I read a book today.

I initially picked it up because of the recommendations. The reviews.

"Life changing."

"Heart breaking."

So many recorded reactions of tears.

Perhaps I seen it as a challenge.

Instead of tears and solemn, I closed the last page and smiled.

It was just too real.

I felt comfort in finally being understood.

I don't know whether it's good,

or a shame,

The way I deserve to be loved,

But that would imply I believe it’s real,

And I no longer believe in fairy tales.

Of drifting in this sea…

Of my own making…

But it is mine..

My own..

And your island is not welcome.

“How can you live through everything and still be so full of life?”

“Simple,” I retorted. “When you’re robbed of life you spend the remainder of your time cherishing the tiniest moments.” A small knowing smile graced my lips.

“Little by little I reclaim moments stolen from me, and emerge more alive than ever.”

It’s murderous.

A rage that comes and goes like the tides.

This time I won’t let them go.

And I will hold them until I feel the world crumble beneath my feet.

And finally take me with it.

“What color do you think is best?”

And he

Picked the opposite of me.

With the crueler aspects of my life.

I hate that I find comfort

In knowing I was right.

I suppose it’s better to die with my eyes open

And live without ever knowing.

Sometimes I feel like, Im falling.

Endless through the trees,

Every branch is just,

"A bump in the road",

Another,

Nother,

Other. . .

I feel crushed,

Smothered,

Unbreathing,

Everyday, yet,

I wake,