Wait, what?!

It’s late at night, will you leave me alone with being insightful? If I write will you leave me alone long enough to sleep like I’m on NyQuil? Or is what is in me desperate to make sure that my my hands are never idle. This ain’t a rehearsal, it’s a recital. And the fight’ll determine what the enemy might kill. The method may appear a slight bit trite still, I write so that I can realize the quota of my gripe fill. Somewhere in the distance Michael Stipe skillfully sings Everybody Hurts, and beggars steal from the divine white till. I feel like I’m always waiting for my bill, and the focus of life drills our brains, reels in what remains, leaves us to fill our own pains with things that don’t quite fill.


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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