January 14, 2008
I lay in bed for hours
Trying to stay distracted,
I stare at the ceiling
Trying not to think of it.

I want to pull out my sketch book
And fill the pages with charcoal drawings—
But my pencils are all broken,
And the only thing I can draw is it.

I want to sit at my piano
And compose a rich melody—
But the piano’s out of tune,
And the only song I know belongs to it.

I want to get out my typewriter
And write a poem or a story—
But I’m out of ink,
And the only story I like is about it.

From the moment I awake
To the moment I fall asleep,
It blocks my eyes
It deafens my ears
From the truth.

It lurks within everything I know.
It haunts my mind everyday, ceaselessly.

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