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, April 29, 2012

Overkill

This is not a poem
This is not a love song
This is the product of imagination gone wrong

You are not a person
Or a place or thing
You are inexplicably unexplainable
The shadow of a bad dream

You do not breath air
Or walk upon the earth
You do think thoughts
Have value or worth

You do not exist
Do not argue that fact
You are invisible mist
You are trapped



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