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.

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.