how strange it is
that I have become so numb
I flip mindlessly through books
I listen to a million songs
but no melody sings to me
I don't sleep
my laughter is derisive and cloudy
and I write about the same things.
I am my own ruin
I have accepted my own fate
further injecting the novocaine
deeper into my bloodstream
self-medication
has always been my strong suit
and yet the human in me still lives
she clings desperately onto hope
like pandora when she unlocked evil
she still glances sometimes
out the window
maybe peering for a whisper of Peter Pan
she nonchalantly gazes at flowers
her eyes studying the petals
searching for fairies
when the night is cold and sleeping
she turns on Tchaikovsky
and starts to dance
she plays piano at dawn
and runs back to bed
at the first sound of waking
because the human in her
doesn't want the humans in others
to know that she exists, at all.
I have a dream
but it is a quiet dream
it is a tempting, seducing dream
that one day
as my eyes flutter shut in a field
lying beneath the setting sun
hands grasping lightly at wildflowers
that I stay there forever
and bury pandora's box
letting the human in me
dream wildly, ferociously, beautifully, endlessly.
// ONE, TWO, THREE, SHUT YOUR EYES— SLEEP IS A GIFT.
