4AM Ramblings, Lings, Lings

Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, who is she

Is that me? I wish it wouldn't be

That hand, that hair, that voice, that name

That - that what happened I was caught

In the static electricity of my mind

The signal gave out and I didn't mind

Sometimes for some minutes I feel

What death is, or what sleep should be

And I wish I cared, but not as much

As much as I often actually do

Because I'm sick with feeling fever

With lapses of numb syndrome

Terminal, because every case of life is

First time I heard it, I felt it

Because I'm a robot run on anxiety

And sometimes I can't move my body

And others I can't make it still

Should be asleep because freedom is almost over

That feeling, that void instead of vibrations

That feeling of regret without dread

Without anyone to take me out my head

Who's there? Not me, said invisibility

I'm going to be alone

Worse is that I'll prefer it

How do you know if you're capable of love?

Is it something taught or born

And how can you love one that hates

What you stand for, are, is, me

I, I, I rage and riot and love

Yet can't hate even if I deserve to

How can you, hate, hate, hate

I've been told you can't love until you hate

Or at least can't understand it

And maybe that's why I'm so detached

Ready to lose anyone anytime

Planning the breakups of relationships I haven't had

How can you find that passion

Do they sell it in a bottle, I'll buy three

Because all I know is responsibility

And I'm too anxious to stay sober anymore

Rocking back and forth until I shake out the shakes

Changing my personality to get you to like me

Cha-cha-cha-chameleon, my karma's good

Like my credit score; nonexistent

Like my awareness, like my life experience

Like my opinion on what I want

Excluding life because that's the question

I want answered

The - the are we gonna become someone

Are we gonna be more

Gotta gotta gotta got to

Get me, find me, catch me

That something made that someone more

That new, improved, easy-to-use, me, me, I

Poetry, poetry, how cliche can I be

The not-quite-writer, the-not-quite-artist

The angsty, overachieving, Straight-A gay

With parents who hate who she is

Even if they don't know it yet

And these 4 AM sleep-drunk poems

That are made of crap sleep-shift me

Passed on to the almost-me shift me

Because almost-she deals with it

While sleep shift me turns it into

Cracking teeth, ripping skin,

And too much truth to sleep through

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