Concave
in the early morning
sun streaking rays
over
empty hearts
empty stomachs
empty bones
and I listen

lawn mower mumbles
motor groans
faint siren yelps

        what is fullness

a dog stretching long
yawn
withering
breaks and aches
brown sheets
black dog
purple walls

years have been spent
learning how to suffer gracefully
with cliched humor
bleeding sarcasm
and a mouth full of synthetic words

and we all suffer
distressed
I see anger bandaging wounds
sadness assessing damages
grief losing hope

        helplessly watching

ignore me
it's easy.

young hearts are reckless
a car crash
broken glass
glittering and stunning
can’t help but
reach out
and touch it
still startled when it cuts
blood bubbles to the surface
like hot springs

please unsubscribe
unfollow
hollow
how low

late nights
patterned sleeplessness
hot air
cold thoughts
sweat glistening

        Sleeplessness

train sounds off
quick secessions
and the breathing is off
Rhythm
I am a word that has no vowels
but a 'Y' is what it needs to be when it needs to be it.

        Stutter.

A "happy" sleeplessness.
Fresh sun on your skin,
Daydream shadows,
Blight careworn woe.

You, silhouetted against the skyline
******* slumber, slowly putting on
The night

Slipping into moonlight silk
Sliding into ambience
Of darkness laced with streetlights,
A veil of fireflies
Spilt,
Soft curves flowing side to side,
Voluptuous
Waves swaying delight,
My nocturnal albi

It’s late at night, and I should be doing
Something else – look and see, dawn creeps closer.
Oh, but who knows what the morning will bring?
I pray only that we do not bicker.
This isn’t the first night I’ve needed sleep,
Nor the last evening I’ve spent worrying.
My uncertainty sure knows how to creep.
Retrospect takes my memories to wring,
And I cannot stop – please, please stop – thinking.
When I speak I wish I could be silent;
Confined in my head, I want to take wing.
Yet I know I deserve it – I warrant.
       Sleep calls me to her and tells me to shush –
       My apologies, for I cannot hush.

don't, please,
don't leave me alone with my
Thoughts.
they leave the lights on in my brain
while corpse lies
there.
tomorrow, or friday,
now too weak.
let lids *letharge

there's a knot in the middle of my spine -
a knot made with flaming fuchsia rope -
that i have never been able to untangle.

my fingers aren't able to reach it quite right;
no matter how much i rub or how far i arch my back against the mattress,
the knot remains as taut as a lifeline.

and i can't cut it loose also,
i don't leave no scars on my back for i have promised myself the blade's lips can kiss my wrist and my wrist only.

there have been people who have encountered me in this life to whom i have mentioned the knot.

a couple of people only nodded and avoided my troubled eyes.

some people have had the pleasure of fastening it even tighter.
experienced sailors with impressive tying skills,
that can secure an entire ship of agony and relentless torture to a worn and raw anchor as heavy as my body,
with the vessel of malicious fingernails and empty words.

most people have only soothed my aching back with gentle fingers;
caressed and patted the knot with a tight lip drawn upon the face
and pitied my sorrow with forbearing eyes.

no one has ever cared to untie the unforgiving knot.

no one has reached out to pull the burning end of the rope and set it loose.

no one has carelessly ripped out of me the sigh i have been guarding in the hollow of my throat for so long.

no one has set me free.

37 sleepless hours,
Felt like a  mistake.
Competition over,
Tests all taken.
But the memories are just beginning.
The room goes dark,
100’s of DECA kids go silent.
The hypnotist begins to talk.
Slow, methodical rhythm.
All care disappears.
The stress of competition is gone.
Seeming to melt off my body.
Eyes become heavy,
Heavier.
Bodies become heavy,
Heavier.
And somehow I'm asleep.
Leaning against you now.
If I only knew then all I know now.
The trauma that would come from this conference
I would have made it 38 hours
Or even 40 without sleep.

I have left this marbled host of the future's tired, brilliant minds at a quarter to four in the morning.
I am still and bewitched from the latest spell of writer's mania. I have reached the highest point of the neighboring smokies.
It's advised that when descending from a hike, one should proceed with caution in order to avoid straining.
So I slowly observe the surroundings I have detached myself from for the past couple of hours. I line my psyche in a goldenrod shade of velvet.
Simultaneously comforted and stimulated.
The observational sky is inky, like the residue resting in between the lines on my finger tips.
The person striding next to me and I have made the conscious decision to enjoy the silence.
We step in unison, their gaze wanders, but their intent is fixed on the destination.
Uncalled for precipitation is falling in a quixotic manner. It is now three minutes past four and there are cardinals chirping.
I bid my companion from this stroll a goodnight. As the elevator closes they earnestly compliment the magnitude of my pupils.
I had been complaining about sleepless nights, but now I am being tucked into bed by the nocturnal kind's ways.
It is now twenty-seven minutes past four.