WONDERLEMON

On some of the sweeter,

quieter moments of the night.

The stars whisper to me, 

Only to get louder. Stronger

because a skyscraper is approaching.

Most of my time fights

for attention, gluttony. For lucky. 

Contentment visits, consequences stay longer. 

Is it “Don’t” or “Do”?

Either carry back something true. 

Though those thoughts should discontinue. 

The sweeter times are new.

Morning returned quiet skies blue.

Clearly this concept

of a full nights sleep

is either a secret the charmed have kept

or an idealists’ hope to keep.

Because it feels 

like half the world can’t compete

with winding wheels

and pillows stuffed with steel. 

Sometimes I don’t know that I’ve been pacing.

The lights are as low as they go. 

But it all just feel like whitened out double spacing. 

I wake up too early, he’s home quite late

and as sunlight stays, these eyes lock shut. 

Then darkness fades as I pace and create.

‘Till back to bed and his kisses cut

in all the right places,

and lashes flutter up to love.

The lips to lock after too many faces

and orders we may be above. 

It doesn’t matter what patterns fall out of line

as long as there’s time for a story, a cigarette to share

with this other body blessedly mine…

blowing away every despair.

Every night. 

In sickness and in health.

The turn we made turned out right.

Hist heart and heat as my source of wealth. 

I’d actually

reallly reacher not say 

how naturally 

this chaos comes my way.

I many begin to feel faint 

and then awake 

as unsatisfied as these pills I take

or must have taken

as the storm arrived. 

This god-like forsaken 

nightmare, always revived probably just followed me

to an undead sleep.

So place the blame, I wont disagree

and the lights will be off in time to weep. 

Storms have stattered

several of my nerves.

Snow white, blood splattered

with whiskey soaked slurs.

It has already been

a matter of time

before night begins,

for a blank rhyme. 

Terrified and tearfully true,

a murmur of thunder wounds. 

I will never be as strong as you.

So I stared, shook, and swooned. 

It’s like the moment dreamless eyes become cement, I produce toxic tap water yet again.  Nicotine comes before the greed of natural needs as simple as sleep.  Pried, pealed as to not drown in my meticulous strain of lemonade. More kindly, my beloved yet dangerous “sunshine bed”. Beautifully cloudesque, but empty with the exception of tossing out the ghosts that have crept in to disturb.  

This is a diagnosis no longer. Just restless smoke rings vibrating up to a low ceiling.

 I pace to avoid the blank space, drugged as prescribed but walking dead by night.  I’d dial a number if words would be strung, so turning to pages and pens for ineligible comprehension is a black swan song unsung. 

Once, I’d die to squeeze the eyelids until the sun. Or, at the very hopeful least, until sometime past three in the morning.  Unconsciousness does come in waves, but it never stays.  perhaps out of fear for approaching day.  If only the blinds would shut, I’d see blackness, though mid-nighttime remains a distracting grey.

Wishing my ink would dissolve into a dream, I wake thrice nightly for a reminder there’s still room to breathe.  Just don’t diagnose me. Please. 

My veins get so wound up that they forget

how to sting boiling blood with chardonnay.

It’s no fault of my heart’s, yet there is debt

this medicine hopes to dissolve someday.

My spine unwinds so absentmindedly,

yet it’s very existence stands flighty.

I whisper wisdom meticulously 

just to faint at foreshadowed gravity.

There is a tunnel behind this forehead…

lost memories, flooded with remedy. 

When his scent’s left thread, bottles come to bed.

To get some sleep, I burst to melody.

I don’t blame the moon for summoning fear,

midnight just appears safer when love is here. 

You can see the neon cherry slowly extinguishing excessive cigarettes burn from behind my pupils. No matter how effortlessly I’m training to paint sunshine above everyday skies, night still allows demons to flow freely out and on to my windowsill. After midnight, I am either deep in sedated, melodiously narrated unconsciousness or staring at the clock in vibrato anxiety as it strikes Not Right.  It’s as if the flickering lights of lone nights are whispering through my surround sound blankets that all is crumbling. That I must buzz between the everflowing bottles of merlot, my reassuring notes, and a static stricken television screen to quiet spiraling screams. Yet, when I take my last breath of fire and finally retire…it is clear that I am the only one torn in fear.

I wake and every smoke signal was a blatant mistake. Everyone, everything is fine until the wine makes me shake and my eyelids are on the line.  I’m cursed come darkness, what is immaculate bliss treads to a gravity defying mess of gratuitous sentences.  Still, let it be known that my days are weightless in contentment.  I float and prance in a newfound trance of radical acceptance. Never felt so lovely.  Never smiled so sincerely.  Never thought I could rest my head so lightly.  

To stay awake was once to stay ahead, but I’d like to sleep decades before I’m dead.  Wide alive, I must fight the night.  Finish my cigarette, turn off my pen, and close my eyes. 

I can’t understand why I humor the haze

a periwinkle pill to compliment an aimless, naked gaze

the majority of days,

are spent skipping through my city’s maze

but every night,

I’m armed for battle, a fistful of fears waiting to take flight

I’m fine under sunshine

generally buzzed, but those lazy demons are mine

dusk is something else’s property

I whisper out my window for someone to love me

because it exists a transit away from this remedy

I’ve been known to sing into bottles of whiskey

and these skyscrapers swallowing stars

make rest appear so far

it gets dark after dark

so I giggle into a receiver as my senses are scarred and my lungs fill with tar