2AM
Pitch black, flashlight bright.
Lonely night.
Moaning jazz accompanying me
in my confused blight.
Spirit dead, dirty bed,
cluttered head, ink bleed.
Tired eyes, forgotten lies,
maggots to flies, anything that ties.
End of the World, oh so young.
Yet careless.
Pages burn in fright.
Me, I, Mine, Words shall die.
No one wants to see the light.
2AM and here I write horrid poetry only a mother could hate. Weaver of words I fancy myself. Who truly believes prophecy goes on. Never to make much sense.
Perhaps if I am to sleep again, perhaps if I am to go on with life, perhaps I must write. Write to those who shall find me. Find my words, find my burned pages and intelligible words.
Life goes on! As I’ve said I am my mother’s child. Time to go and get checked out. Or is that rather in? My mind is racing, my temperature sky high, sleep deprived. All these my symptoms and still I write. This should tell you my state of mind.
These pages I should burn myself. A book shall be made one day. Petty, petty. Things I see in the night without a light.
My spirit she wanders. I fear she is lost. Lost in this great abyss of clutter in my head. No lifeboats in sight. My savior turns to my captor to ask for my sanity and the resemblance strikes me not as he becomes one. My spirit she is lost. Lost in a world full of lies. Lies I’ve told, Lies I’ve lived, Lies I’ve seen, Lies I’ve heard.
The truth is out there if you but search. Once found be strong it’ll hurt but not harm. Strength in the truth, live your own life. Never let a lie escape your lips for perhaps someone who seeks the truth has come to you.
I think I need an editor. Good luck to those who like to weed and revise. Understand, please understand. Cryptic I’m sorry it seems to always come this way.
Doctors have medication for things like this which ails me. Are they fools? Am I foolish then to seek help for my mother or just afraid of the truth. My mother no longer exists. She’s trapped in her own cage as I’m now in mine. Never a warning escaped her lips to tell me not to throw away the key. It’s too late for me.