So heavy,

My breath deep and aching in my chest.

To go to bed

And sleep,

Not for better weather,

But for the chance to be the sun.

I’m walking a path

Currently stationed in a forest

Hidden from the natural rays of light.

A forest with trees made of sorrow,

Bark clustered with moaning beetles

That constantly chips away in a cicada’s cry

At the inspiration being filtered out of my head.

The soil of the woods

Is comprised of nothing but my salty tears,

Too high in their own sodium and self-mourning

To grow any beautiful thoughts

With reaching petals so full of life.

The energy is hidden somewhere,

Lurking in the shadows…

Or even in the missing sun.

Til then, ever so slowly,

I continue to crumple in on myself,

Wilting from my own toxicity,

Toxicity brewed for no moral reason

Other than the fact that I am lost.

No flashlights or compasses will find me,

For I’m within the deprivation of my own sleeping creativity,

Where all beeping machines were originally deemed useless

But now hold to much candlelight

That they become addicting.

Jumping

To pointless

Lilipads

That grow in desolate swamps,

To learn how to really hop

Rather than limping across foliage;

To learn how to really fly,

To let my eyelids flutter until I wake up

and stretch the aches away.