sleep is a
fickle mistress
and i
at my best
am an anxious soul

this time of year
causes my stern
to take on more
brackish water
than the pumps can
hope to displace
as i pick and choose
responsibilities
so i hyper fixate
on small wishes
rubbing them together
looking for a spark

seven months ago
i submitted
something i poured
parts of myself into
i can never retrieve
and every day i wait
for the rejection
telling myself
if it take this long
there must be chance

the silence
is deafening
as i struggle to
live as technician
writing my every
frustration
lovingly describing
my depression
being crushed at
the brink of hope
begging for a break
collapsing in
upon myself

i know i am
stuck in a loop
burying myself
deeper in the muck
it isn’t the waiting
that’ll kill you

it’s the living
every single time

can you choke
on silences
as they bunch up
in the back
of your throat

sleep is a
fickle minx
running her fingers
down my chest
then running away
laughing at me
as reality
reasserts itself

perhaps god is mute
so all we see is
her middle finger
as she ignores prayers
maybe i am asleep
next to her
anxiously dreaming
of sleepless nights

just wake me up