i feel tired at 7:30 (p.m)

sometimes i go to bed that early

sometimes i stay up to a grand 8:30

exhausted of putting my feelings into jokes

i guess if i laugh it’s not serious

that way i can laugh before i cry myself to sleep

 

i need to make sure i’m down and out before 10

anxiety spreads its wing to feast on my happiness

let’s think

the way they commented on my suicide joke, or the quote i posted

stop complaining?

what would they say at my suicide note?

 

i don’t want to go to sleep

my nightmare haunt me

worse than a scary movie

hospitals and you

fill my body with rocks and sow it up with words

insults for stitches trap the heavy hurt inside

if i lighten my load on someone else

i’m selfish

at least since I’m weighted

it will be easier for me to sink

 

i don’t know which is worse

being awake to feel anything and everything

being asleep to let memories distort themselves into dreams

i spend most of my 8+ hours close-eyed

open mind death

 

slumber suffering

i know i’ll have nightmares

shuteye sadness

i can dream of realist things that will never happen

can never happen (?)

 

i don’t want to stay awake

there’s nothing better to do than sleep

stay up

i’ll write

my pen is out of ink

my hand keeps writing

my pen’s ink will smear from tears

i can’t cry

hmph must be dreaming

 

tears swim up to rest against my lash-line

they drown.

i thought i caught a glimpse of you

maybe it’s a nightmare

 

it’s 11:32 (p.m.)

i can’t stop thinking

popcorn reminiscences

 

love made his face feel inexorable

infatuation in his cheeks

the softest fuzz trail

sideburns and jaw i plant

a kiss

 

velcro whiskers

upper lip

i’m hooked

hairs on his

chinny

chin

chin

 

mostly i recall

lips

plump pink gates of Hell.

smiling wands

abracadabra!

parenthesis laugh lines

snake lips

kiss me

goodbye

 

my poetic mind

keeps me up at night

trying to stitch these thoughts together

a description of this sadness

this melancholy monotony

that is so numbingly sad i cannot

write

and i write when i am sad

 

my existential anxiety asks me

what’s the point

my hopeless romantic replies

because hope

because i write when i am sad

i am so sad

sad so i write

 

i hope that what i write will

be good

paradoxically this does not

feel good

i write in spirits that

my feelings that are woven into words

will be worth reading

 

i write to recite

screaming

how thoughts present themselves in my head

 

i write without picking up my pen

my pen is the ocean

or just because i write in cursive

curvy characters

 

my pen is the ocean

overflowing emotions

like a broken dam that won’t stop until

it is drained

likewise

when i stop feeling

i’ll stop writing