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

Monday, February 20, 2012

What We Made

Babies are born
Children are raised
But people are made

Steeped in life's brew
For a decade or two
Designed and created
By more than a few

Frequently shaped
Molded and prodded
Goaded and prompted
Persuaded and modded

Yours
Mine's
And everything in between
Influenced
Directed
Vetted then screened
Wrapped and packaged
By the largest of teams
An assembly line
Never to be seen
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