the click of the lock on the door
whispers “don’t worry,
you’re alone;
you can  b r e a t h e ”

collapsed weight on a
creaking, aged mattress;
the only sense of comfort
that seems to care

other than the purring mass of fluff
that decides to make a bed
from your stomach

before you know it
everything around seems to f a d e…

the space and stars
sing melodies and hymns,
comforting your tired, tired ears
tired mind
tired soul
tired everything

at least, in your head
there is no worry
over exhaustion
over responsibility
because all you’re doing
is floating
endlessly
it’s almost
too easy to slip away;
to forget everything
that is binding you
to the mortal coil

to be a spectator
rather than a participant
in the hurt, the pain,
the sadness, the loss…

the digging of claws
in your forearm
brings you back to the present;
the imperfect, bleeding reality

you remember
everything you must do;
that japanese packet,
a project for government,
even this very poem
for creative writing

it’s not asking much,
shouldn’t be a problem to get
some simple assignments done;
you’ve been told
“you’re  s m a r t ”
“you’re  b r i g h t ”
but are your luminescent lights
like the Sun?
or  a r t i f i c i a l ?