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too earlate.

I have to

be up in

just a few

short hours

and I already 

know they’ll 
be
spent 
sleeplessly

just like 
the
last 
twenty six

have been 

but now, 

it’s different. 

There are 
spiders
in my 
hair and they

want to nestle

in my brain,

perhaps work

their way down 

my spinal column

and I know 
I
shouldn’t 
let them

but my pillow

smells of you

and I can 
no
longer 
focus on 

a n y t h i n g

but your eyes

in my mind

and your lips

that aren’t here

on mine.

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“art.”

This shit

the same shit 

I once called art

(or something 
like that)

keeps coagulating 

in my mind; 


it is the oatmeal 

that I refused to

even sniff 
as a child.
It’s come for

revenge

and requires I

sacrifice my
words,
the
biggest loss

I may ever know.

web.

I clung to you

like the spider 

to her web -

gently, on silent 

feet so as not

to frighten you 

away, yet –

firmly, to keep

my footing
steady

but then,
at once,

my feet lost

purchase and I 

fell, headlong

into my own

sticky mess

that I may

never learn 
to
clean up.

capability.

I have perfectly capable legs
Existing in a world of nonsense
Cysts form on my eyes, render me blind
Needing assistance to walk,
Continue to assert my legs’ capability
Tie string to every doorknob I no longer use
Usurp the tyrant that is my mind
Die trying to fix what is indeed broken
Endangering myself for the well-being of my limbs
Buzz the doorbell, forgot I needed that room
More blank spaces occupy my being,
Greedy for sight.

flee.

There is a black bird, perched
with scarlet wing,
chirping exclamation points
as though I, with
human unhearing ear
might be able to decipher
those frantic tweets.

Please, little bird,
don’t fret so.
Do you not see how
very free you are?
With just a flap of your
beautiful wings, you soar
to any place your
avian heart desires

But perhaps that is
the reason for your cries?
With no discernible home
of your own, you must
wander all your days, the
constant nomad.

A clear, glass window
could be your salvation,
if only you could somehow
muster the courage.

Unoccupied nest

Blue, broken bits underneath

Mother’s silent grief

raging waters.

There are always

the uphill battles 

that must be bested.

Then there are

those that must be

swum upstream.

Glancing back,

the journey never

looks as difficult,

but the weary, worn

body knows.

There are moments

when the current is

too strong to fight,

so we give in to

the defeat – but

only for a while.
For the journey

is not over;

the battle, not won

So we go on,

fighting with every 

ounce of our being,

trying to stay afloat

when the waves are

determined to end

the quest.
Our lungs, near to

bursting 
always make
it 
to the surface,
gasping 
for one more breath,

just one

to make it through

until the water inundates,

until the war is

but

a

memory