I am sleepless,
this fatigue
allows no relief.

I am weak,
impartial to either
slumber or activity.

I am awake
at ungodly hours,
while the world sleeps.

My thoughts are lucid
at the most
inappropriate times.

I am thinking
when I should
be at rest.

I am sleeping
when I could be

My clock,
is an aberration
of time.

Fear wakes at night,
thoughts I give no quarter during the day,
now weigh heavy.

in this anxiety,
I have forgotten what’s real.

I am sleepless,
I am fatigued,
I am awake

at ungodly hours.

This Mountain

This mountain,
a pastel of colours,
blues, greys, and whites
electrify the sky,
a hue of muted tones
that stain the clouds
and appear born
out of this mountain.

it displaces me,
it is day and night,
dusk and dawn,
all at once,
I am asleep – I am awake,
I am distant – I am present,
within this mountain.

it embraces me,
it surrounds and consumes me,
but reassures –
it encompasses all that I am,
this mountain.

It has been too long,
I am guilty
of amnesia,
of turning my back
from where I came,
how quick memories
flood back,
as I walk on this mountain.

The blue overtones,
the pastel paints,
the white clouds
that make up this mountain,
consume me,
my fears blend into the scene,
crippling once powerful emotions,
into sidelined after-thoughts.

This mountain,
forgives me,
accepts me,
it is compassion,
it is my rock.
I am here,
I have become,
and I am home,
on top of this mountain.

Who I write for

You are who I write for,

who I think of,

who I compare to,

when I write.


You are the audience,

the critic,

and the protagonist

in my stories.


You are found,

when meaning is buried,

and when truth

is elusive.


You are my thoughts epiphany,

the kiss in my passion,

the seducation in my eyes,

and the guilt in my stomach.


You are the ink in my pen,

the keys on my keyboard,

and the punctuation

in my grammar.


You are the author,

the director,

the producer,

and I am the actor


playing your part.