It seems like its been days since I left this bed.
My bones ache for some kind of movement.
A nod maybe a flinch.
Shock and nausea set in, this is more then just a bad dream.
I swear I could have been more then just a blank page.
Pull me from underneath these cold sheets and drag me to the pen.
I’ll write my goodbyes, feel it all or feel nothing.
Maybe you should just capture me, and put me in a jar, watch me decay from the inside out.
Simply watch me become beautiful.
These winter nights have never felt so cold.
Where is my blanket when I need it for more then just covering up my intentions.
I don’t think I could bare this anymore.
Let me be free, or poke some holes in the jar so I can breathe.
Something, anything that makes me alive then just these dreams.
Hope or hopeless?