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

Thursday, August 2, 2012

The Young Die Hopeful

The romantics of this life
Are of the juvenile kind
The young and naive
With unexperienced minds
Hopefully and Blissfully
Unprepared
Not yet exposed to wear & tear

With rose colored outlooks
They stare at the world
With freeze frames and outtakes
Their innocence twirls
Around and around
These invincible children
Spin in the carousel
With the falling ceiling
Crushed and crumpled
Their bodies become
But with outlooks still bright
As the new morning sun
Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)