WONDERLEMON

Surely this life has shattered, 

though my heart remains cautiously in tact. 

All the grainy gratuity that once mattered

has been blissfully pushed back

and safety has gathered. 

LIt up every inch of thick black,

the bubble has exploded

but my window’s wide open.

As are these arms, this mind, that bed…

understanding that there’s salvation

beyond paper and pen

and so much more to be said,

letters unsigned yet sent.

This is not a trap,

but the end my of beginnings.

I am present, a box to wrap

and tiresome sinning

deserves a nightcap.

But I am brand new, the first seasons inning.

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.