Sleep Deprivation

The crisp blue light,

only shows,

That the poison images,

are living

inside my slacking sinew.

The gravity pulls back,

to turn away from this shackle and face the silence once more,

instead,

I skip across the dreams realized by others,

closer to death.

Somewhere beyond the words and light and thoughts,

beyond the waste of worn pathways,

beyond the mocking laugh of the sliding sun and stars,

when light and thought and words are no more,

Maybe I will finally fall asleep.

And yet temptation is an ocean that I drown in

Distraction is the sharp bite of my vice

The poison lingers sweetly

and stings when sober

If I could only SHATTER the veil that burns my eyes and saps my wasting body

Break my head from the illusions and damn the dreams of others.

Maybe,

Eventually

I could fucking sleep.

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Mind’s fire.

Circulating Spirals of uncertainty rise and retreat.

Dark forms burn in my brain, casting secret shadows from clear flame,

releasing Angels and Demons, both pure and profane.

Coals burn hot with life filling my soul

And yet the darkened logs weigh heavy as all toil.

flames in my head grope at the sky

like a hornet’s nest, swirling fears and lies

biting notions of a burning will

to fight, what love, and who to kill.

It all seems useless.

The pressure strains in multitudes

smoke of all lost and ash of all dead

only substance, white-orange and lapping

is the fire in my whirling world

destined to disperse.

Yet feed the flames again and again,

I catch onto new worlds whether living or dead.

Futile Instincts.

You know how dogs will keep fetching or chase things around until they are worn out, or how cats can’t help themselves from swatting at fast moving tiny things, even though it’s clearly a jangly ball on a stick…I wonder if humans have one of those futile instincts we can’t stop ourselves from doing….

It’s probably just vices, sex, or violence.

But that does not mean we don’t have fun things we cant help ourselves with! (besides the Vice and Sex part). I mean there is music and art and good food. We find infinite ways to be creative. And maybe that is humanity’s futile instinct, to be creative and try new things until we’ve done it all.

But, It’s probably just vices, sex, or violence.

I mean I MEAN, we have all these thoughts spinning in our heads that we need to drown out or let go just to live without going mad. What do we do with our time? What does it all mean? Who are we as individuals? Is it worth it? Maybe our futile instinct is questioning! We cant help but question things, even if we know the answer. Looking up at the stars and feeling that wistful humility of knowing how much more is possible. Or maybe it’s like…like…

It’s probably just vices, sex, or violence.

The fence.

How broken are our ties,

When words and hate surround,

When those charged with truth spin lies,

And spill pollution in minds abound?

 

The alternative is useless or risk,

Drift out at sea with a meek little sign,

or stand and throw stones or bricks,

what is worth to stiffen my gutless spine?

 

To say that I can fight what crushes us,

or feign peace to cover my fear,

Of the bludgeons and tearing bullets,

That lash upon those who do not adhere.

 

Though I may cast no stone, I still may still yet be broken,

Words are not so easily killed and safety is an illusion.