There's probably a very fine line between insomnia and insanity. With insomnia, sleep comes in violent pauses, never completely reassuring. The trickiest part of it is that you never realize you've fallen asleep until you wake up... until it's too late. It's a bad way to live, but it beats being dead. I'm trying to relax, but I can't seem to get rid of this pain in my chest - the new clutches of a broken heart - or the cold in my head. And I'm on fire. There's no middle ground. I don't even like this place anymore. It's pretty sad when sleep becomes a chore.
I'm holding onto something terminal, coating the ice with the ocean's saliva. I'm wasting away in bloody patterns, while all eyes bend around me and sometimes through me. I need to get out of here before I fall down and scratch myself to life. I need to wake up and face the insomnia. Face, not embrace. I need to distinguish between coffee air freshener and forest-flavored sleeping pills... I'm choking on the bark. The soft colors are screaming agony in my brain, and my feet have found forced comfort in the dirt. I need to sleep.
Something's always wrong with us. I can't put my hands around it, but I'm starting to put my finger on it. We're so impersonal. I'm beginning to feel like a clone. Drone? We're all circus clowns. Freaks in cages, on display. Elephants on tight ropes (trip wires), there to risk our lives (or present the illusion) in order to entertain you. I'm not even attempting to make sense at this point. I'll jump from one thought to the next, and you won't see it coming. Or will you?
The new Scream Queen takes pride in her exposed lungs, and dyes her hair because we need to notice. Fallen stars drop acid at beach parties in the summertime. They are merely attempting to gain height. Addicts sit this act out, and refresh pain killers with candy bottles. They are merely trying to gain speed. Everyone wants to be high again. Everyone wants to be fast again. I'd just like the world to pause for one violent minute. But it won't. (And I won't beg.)
It's fairly simple to craft infatuation out of porcelain. But I've turned obsession into a fucking art form. Regardless, she looks good in a skirt. She balances vinyl insulin in her veins, in vain, in between the lines that lie in between the lines that lie (stop!), somewhere hidden beneath the sheets, never in them. She melts cherries on her tongue with incredible ease, and yawns in fractions. I freak out and I trip in and I settle reluctantly on Acid Poetry. I'm holding onto my own skin, falling out of my new chair, sinking into a new lie, all for the sake of stupid imagery. I've convinced myself and I believe it: Nobody cares.
This isn't about poetry anymore. It's about opening up, and making yourself completely vulnerable for people that don't give any hints, however small, that they give a fuck. It's about loving people who only love you back in theory, in secret. It's about needing help, but reaching out to the wrong hands. It's about trying to find the right words to poetically disguise your growing paranoia or fear. It's saying, "Are you fucking blind?" to people who merely stare at you like you're from another planet. But never anything special. God forbid. And they question you. And they doubt. And they spit on you. And they claim to love you. And they judge you. And they burn you. And they do it so casually, that you tend to forget what they're really doing. And you open up and they make you beg for support, for love, for respect, on both bruised knees, and they bleach your dignity and feed your anger. And they fuck you. And they hate you with beautiful smiles. And they hurt you. They hurt you. You hurt me without one action, one movement, one simple word, depriving me of one violent pause. That's what hurts the most. That's what leads to this pathetic excuse for therapy. Ha! therapy.
And then I jump to the next thought (carnival lovers in sourdough nets), so you're not sure who the victim is. It's certainly not me. Do you think it might be you? Guess what, friend. Nobody cares.
