The Product of 5 a.m. and Doubleshots

Silent, white-noise, open air.

Gives way to the nervous tick

Wrapped around my wrist.

Head cocked to one side, heightened.

Feeling the blood pulsate through

The usually numb cartilage of my ear lobes.

The ringing in my ears

Echoing recesses of years. 

 

Makes me long for the tick again.

In the manufactured noise

Inside my head,

I vibe to my own rhythm, 

A beat that the present has yet created,

A beat whose frequencies only I seem to hear.

My lucid dreams become nightmares.

My realities become dayscares. 

 

 

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