spread thin like melted nutty putty; tired of not caring, and being tired.
June 28, 2012
Night time makes me think,
makes me wanna believe all the
good, sweet things I wanna believe,
and the hour before sleep is soaked with
the bitter and fragrant tones of doubt,
warm in my gut like old old wine.
The bad kind that tastes like shit.
Spritz your Yves Rocher strawberry,
down that magnesium tablet at one a.m.
and wait for equilibrium to escape you
once again. Nothing works, but I'm
contemplating lavender candles and
maybe getting a cat. Stupid idea.
Then the words start running,
like some ugly nosebleed that
knows no manners or good timing.
It catches easily onto anything that's
white, plain, or soft, and it splotches
with no sense of organization, no mind
to keep the blood at bay.
Just platelets and biology.
The next thing, tie your hair up,
because you wouldn't want
stray words getting caught
and tangled in there.
It'd be one hell of a morning.
By now, the early dawn is full of potential,
but tinged with exhaustion. The night curdles,
blood turning the inevitable black.
The darkness is smothering and blinding,
but you like finding your way through halls
with nothing but your sense of direction
and blind, wandering hands.