My shoulder hurts. I have woken up
The clock reads 12:15.
For a moment, I thought it meant PM
I realize I fell asleep at 6.
I turn on a show, it makes no sense
Every other person is an alcoholic or a pervert
It’s awful, the book is has less of this
But to see the faces on the screen nearly makes it okay.
I am not a visual person.
I need sound, the easiest flow of passion.
I stuff my headphones
Into my closet, so I don’t have to hear.
They dance around on screen, immoral and monologuing, but the sound is in my closet. Am I meant to feel something?
I write poetry at 1:31 AM. I fought
With my mother last evening.
The thought turns my stomach and makes me sick
I am languishing; why
I gaze around my empire of manifest
And wish for something spiritual.