| Why is it always four in the morning When my senses are most alert? The sights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes, The feelings of my life come into play Everything I see seems to stir The blinking of music paused Begs only to be free to play The ticking of the secondhand Taunting me to sleep The spider-like lint on the floor I swear, is closer than before Even the walls shimmer with movement If I stare too long The whisper of the heater is only getting louder But my ears are cold That's ironic Some sound of clicking at my window A burglar, worse, a murderer Let's hope he's a rapist too so I won't die a virgin That's sarcastic I inhale and with oxygen comes The smell of my paper And I wonder if it's bad for you Intoxicated by fumes of effort My efforts to obtain true beauty Fumes of powder and products used hours ago Chewing on my lip, remember The taste of contact with another Throughout these months, I have yet To find a candy as sweet and Satisfying as your kiss Nor any kind of beverage as smooth or Soothing as your tongue Argued by my father Regarding sleeping habits I feel angered He vacates my doorway And I reread what I've written More conscious of my surroundings and my thoughts I search for written sense of touch A play on words and I've decided Right now the only thing I feel is lonely |
| Senses |