Journal

Insomniac's Journal

Words birthed in the internal

His subconscious' dunk-tank

These words remained unranked

Articulate the contemplations

Of these waking frustrations

Pen in hand

Sleep be damned

These are the greatest thoughts in the land

But why do they come at 4 in the morning

Must write them down

And heed the warning

His memory won't serve him as well when he wakes

If only he knew what was at stake

Words, Words, and more still left to come

Cannot stop till he sees the sun

Sunken eyes

Blood shot red

Sleep finally comes to the walking dead

Friday, July 8, 2011

Destitute

Living on the bottom
Creates a broken man's autumn
Flakes of his soul
Fall like leaves on a tree
Predestined to fade away
Winter's inevitability

Looking to the top
With Something in his eyes
A flicker of an emotion
Brewing deep inside
Envy yields to rage
And before he knows it
He's climbing to the top
To remove greatness from its pulpit
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