I.
and sometimes I feel
sorrowful because
there are invisible threads
tugging my head
in every which way
and I still haven’t
mastered the art of
floating;
sometimes all I want
is to fall down
and close my eyes
for an
eternity
I don’t know how
any of this started but
maybe some stories are made to
drag on and on and on and
on and on and on and
break the silence until there’s
no glass left to shatter
no bullets left in the gun and
nothing left to bleed

II.
can you tell me why i woke
up all alone
is there an explanation for
the strange feeling of
lingering touch
in the palm of my hand
or am I just dreaming

III.
there are little children dying
but i am so sick of hearing
these stories that I think
I’ll just go to sleep.

IV.
sleep is so
damn
elusive

V.
i want to dive into
the inkstains that I wish
were on my
paper and just roll
with the words I’ve
never been able to
speak.