so tired
i can’t sleep
so full of words
that fall
like a waterfall
of toxic sludge
from the open river
of my subconscious
to discolor the land
into a disease infected
night terror
from vincent’s shack
the septic scarring
of self doubt
that leads
to carving pieces of myself
in an effort
to appear whole
wholly lost
in the fabric
of your silken sheets
and satin good byes
spoken
with the soft texture
of gravel
wrapped in lacey panties
left in a ball
on the floor
by the matrimonial bed
of self disguised innuendos
so tired
but unable to sleep
without the fire
of your touch
upon my
tinder lined soul