the poet’s curse
sitting alone at 3am
the silence seems so
solid as the city
snores a cacophony
of creeping dissonance
light pollution leaves
three stars visible
and the orange malaise
of toxic haze will give
the sun a sickly halo

the electricity grabs
my brain and sets me
jittering silently
so as to not wake
the ghosts sleeping
in ragged fuckpiles
a phantasmal orgy of
secret scars scraping
sending ripples across
the fabric of creativity

she sleeps
far away from my
aching arms
while i daydream
of being a real dream
dancing in her mind
do wishes wished
at the witching hour
carry any more weight
than sunlit begging