all i can hear is the ticking of the clock,

though i'm halfway certain there is nothing but silence.

i would much rather be in a trance than here with such a horrid creature.

you ignite my every being only to

blow it out.

my head is pounding like a child

on his mother's locked door,

yet it feels so light -

like sickness and pleasure have never loved each other more.

your insolence is what keeps me up at night,

though my poetry has become next to

nothing without you.