4am 04/23/2012

Sometimes the ceiling can’t contain my insanity, an endless preamble of martyred profanity, just as simple as rain against a window when pouring, crave the smell of your smile and the sun in the morning.

There are the things that I said, and the things that I know,
that are not the same thing, but I’ll choose not to show,
cause you know what you want, not the love or the fame,
but you’ll die for the glory and burn all the same,

As I sit in my tiny, excuse for a room,
Suffocated by smoke and a rose late to bloom,
scattered clothes, dirty dishes piled to catastrophe,
sinking feeling that shadows against doorways are after me,

Amused that my words cannot cease to rhyme,
mental breakdowns and crises profound yet unkind,
“I’m not crazy,” she says to none she can see,
And it’s tough just to live when you don’t know how to breath,
Self-loathing is caustic and comfort to me,
Why is it so hard to understand what I mean?

Because the soles of my feet get tired of walking,
and the way that your lips move should get tired of talking,
but I made those mistakes and put each down to mocking,
And you can’t start the joke if you have no one knocking,

A riddle of sorts, and a ship stuck at port,
and lies wove into bricks to make war-weathered forts,

insecurities tower to dizzying heights,
smoke clouding my vision just to ruin my sight,
you’d think being alone would teach me to fight,
but it’s only taught me to question times I thought I was right,
and sometimes the only thing you can do is to write,
when it’s 4 in the morning and you thought it was night,

Your voice loses coherency, turns to static and fuzz,
and the warmth of the vodka becomes a simmering buzz,
“You can travel the world,” since it’s just what one does,
But in the end I just wish I still knew who I was.

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