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.