it has become
a tradition to
awake every saturday
at the witching hour

fully alert
to the crushing weight
of existence
while the sparrows
happily sleep

the stories brewing
in my head electrify
my cerebral cortex
as i chase after
any incongruencies

reading ghost stories
while self-haunting
this insipid hell
seeking some sort of
anti-inspiration
just until the next
fifteen are written

but really just running
away from these dreams
which accentuate the
abject failures in
attempting to be human
as this skin suit fits
only an awkward malaise

my only value is in
the words gone unread
or misinterpreted to
cast a villainous light
clutching at nothingness
as a surrogate to hope