Stolen slumbers

Plague my days.

Beads of moisture

Slip down my back.

I scratch furiously

At my reddened skin.

Black eyeliner smears

Across my cheekbones.

Muscles tighten,

Never relaxing.

These are a few insomniac things.

Through the window I see nothing,

The pane of glass is in my way.

What lies beyond this threshold?

Are there dreams that have strayed?

I hear noises of the city outside.

I try to guess what is happening.

It’s more fun if I stray from reality

And imagine fantastic occurrences.

A dragon slayed.

A spaceship crashed.

A vampire feeding.

A goddess descending.

These are a few insomniac things.

Do the well-slumbered folk live easier?

Do they find love, happiness, truth?

Is there an underlying secret to the universe

That only the rested know?

Do they live in a world of daydreams as I,

Or do they live in that thing called reality?

I wonder if there really are well-slumbered folk.

Perhaps it is all a lie.

Or maybe they’re all from an alien world.

These are a few insomniac things.

Insomnis.

Such a beautiful word for something so irritating.

Purple lights over silver blankets.

There is beauty in even the tense states.

I need chocolate.

I need hot black tea.

I need a cigarette.

I need cheesecake.

I need sleep.

These are a few insomniac things.

In the throw of tears

Feeling every kind of sorrow for myself,

Doing the menial task of rinsing out dishes,

Trying to find meaning in my life,

I looked up.

Out the window, snow fell.

Something that usually merits my disdain,

Yet my tears dried.

I found myself smiling, laughing.

I had never seen anything so beautiful,

So meaningful,

So light.

What does it all mean?

Perhaps I’m tired of trying to find meaning.

For once I want to enjoy the moment,

Savor the delicacies.

Savor the abhorrent snow.

And perhaps, one day,

Live.

Rain streams down my cheek,

My shoulder.

My head is fill with visions of

My fantasy life.

Twisted metal yearns without respite

For my blood.

My skin grows a film of green

Like my eyes.

I sit and wonder what event shattered

My icy heart.

What is next as I travel around

My hot sun?

All that matters is while I breathe,

I hope.

Dum spiro,

Spero.

Warmth within and the perfect weather without
The breeze gently rubs my hair
My face aches from smiling too much
My heart’s soothed from the friends who are there
Deep blue glass in my hand
The bottle says something about ginseng

Tequila round the block

You were right all along
I was hiding something from you
What you didn’t realize was,
What I didn’t realize was,
The nature of my secret.

Tequila round the block

When I was a young kit
I rode my bike around the block
It was exhilarating, adventurous
My friends lived on the other side
We laughed and hugged and jumped
The freedom entailed seemed larger than it was

Tequila round the block

Walking into a strange party
I always held myself back
But around friends such as these
My heart was never so safe
And yet I hid it still
Afraid of the inevitable

Tequila round the block

My mind swirled in such a mess
I never knew how to act
I loved them all, they loved me
And yet I couldn’t realize it
I was young and naïve
Cliché, but true
Enough use of French

Tequila round the block

Now I’m so happy to have grown
Surrounded by such incredible people
At that time in life one becomes their own
A tinge of guilt always amasses
And yet I knew no better
Wisdom now penetrates me
Though living the ideal is the trick
I’m still that young blonde girl
In myriad ways

Tequila round the block

Reminiscence is such a beautiful sound,
Taste, touch, scent, and sight
I was loved unconditionally
By my urban family, my Stars
And I loved them unconditionally
Though I was never able to show it
I love them still

Tequila round the block

One more trip and I’ll be stumbling
But I feel so alive and safe
There is no danger, no malice
Just laughter and love
One more trip and I’ll be slurring
But I feel so confident and serene
This is a time I’ll always remember
A time when I was free

Tequila round the block

Temptation moves forward

Yet I remain standing

Lost in distraction,

Searching for meaning.

When autumn dies

My petals fray and wither

And my heart ices over

In its atypical ovoid shape.

Nothing stands in my way,

Except everything.

I start to scream into the night

But the rushing wind

Bleeds the sound until it shatters.

Nothing is as it seems.

The lies of others follow me

As I run blindly into the ocean,

Unafraid of drowning,

Devoid of emotion.

Nothing gets to me,

Except everything.

I want to become lost,

Lost in a dream world,

Lost in warmth,

Lost in breath.

But alas I have been found

By the dark hunter

Who calls himself reality

And dares to defy my realm.

Nothing sees through me,

Except everything.

The iced trees are dripping cherries.

They stain the moist concrete.

If sprouts are to come they will find the world changed.

The world is not ready for blossom.

The chilled wind shakes the tree gently.

Oh when will your green awaken?

I feel the pain growing heavy.

Unwanted eyes slowly shift their gaze.

No more thoughts of iced cherries.

Only the petal that has withered away.

Moderately Severe Depression

No suicidal tendencies.

Blood pressure normal.

Heart rate good.

Moderate panic disorder

Currently under control.

Insomnia and Hypersomnia

At varying times.

Weight gain.

Loss of energy.

Mild mood disorder.

Bouts of severe stress.

Susceptible to viruses and infections.

Severe headaches daily.

Severe migraines twice a week.

Difficulty concentrating.

Memory loss.

Unable to think clearly.

Bleak gray surrounding me, filling me,

Not ever inching towards black.

Calm waves wash over me,

Caressing my dried flesh.

The sand penetrates my feet

Creating a dull ache.

What is dream and reality?

I can’t tell the difference.

I lay here deep in thought

Not wanting to ever leave.

Lost deep in thought,

Too many thoughts at once.

Everything penetrates my defenses.

I wince at the onslaught of the sun

And scream into the light.

The thoughts leave my mind

As the beach and water disappears

And is replaced only by the bleak gray.

It is a rare gift, the unopened flower

          Patiently awaiting its own bloom.

From budding to wilting

          From wilting to budding

It creates art as it lives

          As it dies

Transformation is its existence

          The cycles of life

                   Of death its routine

Saint Dionysus.  This is he.

          He is this rare gift, this orchid

A rare beauty in both substance and form

A depth so limitless and unfathomable

          That only the few recognize it.

He is both dark and vibrant

          Dark and vibrant as an orchid

          Dark and vibrant like me.

Living and dying are simply states of being

The details of existence matter not

The quality of existence is always striven for,

          The beauty,

          The substance

The orchid unfolds its petals and reaches out

          Towards all the unsuspecting admirers of art

This is a beauty they have never before imagined

          Never before dreamed

This is a beauty rare in sight

          In thought

          In time

This is Saint Dionysus

The orchid is he, both dark and vibrant

          Dark and vibrant like me.

Contrasting hues layered upon

          Contrasting mythological tales

A saint in honor of the only male child

          Born from father Zeus himself,

He walks untamed as ivy honoring

          Art, beauty, love, wine,

          Insanity and ecstasy:

          Two sides of a coin

Dark and vibrant is this Saint Dionysus

          Dithyrambic and free

          Dark and vibrant as an orchid

          Dark and vibrant like me.

Screaming mothers clutch onto their dead infants.

Bombs blind the eyes of the dead.

The little girl with the wide eyes watches while hugging her kitten.

The fathers are shot at point blank range.

Why have the mothers lost their sanity?

Why have the fathers abandoned their families?

The dead tell us why but we cannot hear.

Me, the little girl with the wide eyes, watches with tears.

When will this masquerade end?

When will life feel comfortable again?

When will I feel at home?

Too much fighting, too many tears.

My house.

I am wanting to

Reclaim the songs that memories stole,

Feel the rhythms surround me,

Float atop the melodies,

Sing among the clouds.

Every note, every breath

Which resides within me

Has always been of this substance,

The ethereal substance that is song.

Memories attacked me with song.

I could no longer handle the sound

Of this music which loved me so.

At last it is time for a remedy.

I sit here now,

Reclaiming the songs that memories stole,

Feeling the rhythms surround me,

Floating atop the melodies,

Singing among the clouds.

I will not leave myself wanting.