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

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Control

A precious thing
Of which many go without
And few possess
Even the few that do
Don't really
Because their control
Pales in comparison
To the control of nature
Or the control that time will
eventually wear away

If the will is strong
Maybe the drink is stronger
It's up to you
At least that's how it appears
But appearances can fool
More than a fool

Eyes open
To the strangled control
Of a weakling
Such as me or you
Because of what we always knew
Proved to be true
Control only exists for the few
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