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No One Believes Me, But I Can't Say I Blame Them

I find, truthfully
if you stare at the ceiling for eight and a half hours a nightyou begin to fear it.
Now I night pine for day time.
I want which I lack: day dreams, sunrise & sunshine,
I want to be missed, loved, and endless companionship.
I just want, want, & want; more, more, & more.
Though will I give? Have I? Do I ever?
Maybe, maybe not. I couldn't tell you anymore.
I couldn't even tell you about my dreams.
I couldn't describe or paint it out for you
if I dream of blonde, golden locks
or of diamond, crystal clear, sapphire sky blue, hazel sea green,
straight or straightened redheaded brunettes and bedroom eyes,
at once shining and reflective of nighttime gothic black,
refracting the fickle moonlight of punk rock fashion, or slow motion
indie summer dances, like indian rain showering through my Autumn Melancholly,
or even of naturally occuring, undyed prep student beauty with religious-republican parents.
Like someone I could trust. But does Religion produce honesty,
or just blinding ignoranceand binding, willful faith?
And of Secular Atheism?
Am I really alone in a massive universe void of logic, reason, and rational thought?
And what of this model girl I maybe, may have long ago dreamt of?
Or just dreamt UP?
That was when I dreamt, when I slept...
Because I don't.
Some people, they say they have insomnia,
at first I laugh, stumble, choke on my words, then gasp,
"Have you yet lost track of sheep?
Or have you tried dogs, cats, or frogs?
Does your mind allow it, or do you just have the internet?
Do you torrent?
Do you Reddit?
Do you like, status, update, ignore, app, request,
and flag the inappropriate?
Can you find my empty, ghosttown pages?
Can you even see me up this close or am I blurred through the kaleidoscope of poetry?
Because we are here for poetry, right?
Well, I'm doing my best.
As if that were ever good enough.
This time I have eight and a half hours
over & over & over
to make some up. To memorize? Weeks, maybe months.
To look down the barrel of federa guns and see YEARS is ultimately both humiliating and humbling.
So to deliver? Mere minutes. Before I disappear again
Because minutes?
Minutes I took for granted
like all other time, in here minutes are asleep.
Nothing passes.
No time, no privacy-
I took privacy for granted
and healthy arms
and dreams
unlocked doors
tylenol PM
barefoot showers
peace & quiet
a full stomach
fresh air
long walks
loving, clasped fingers and their future plans
Oh the smells
the glorious scent of Autumn
of ivory and dove soaps, blended down bare backs
milky, silky coconut conditioner
sleeping in and IN the dark
soft lotioned skin on rough naked skin contact
full lips
the delicious spit of a lover
sour tongue in cheeks, sharing, swapping rich fluid
And breezy mountain trails
colored, sun soaked, dying leaves
fresh lemon basil
pine and grass and soil
gardens and backyards
the boom, boom, BOOM of bassy looong canyon drives
ripped and loving the curving, undeveloped roads
afternoon mountain air through my morning hair
Stained street lamps by night
crooked sidewalks by day
birds chirping
singing love songs
to cars passing
the sound of friends laughing
horns honking
chasing a wild ball down the street through dirty gutters and tar patched black top
Wind chimes
open, CLEAR windows
singing along
toking and maybe even ghosting too big of hits at the summit with your best
seeing your best (because your best, it turns out, never really abandons you)
presenting dischord
speaking up
speaking OUT
voicing dissonance
denying faith openly, unafraid
escaping persecution
shouting obsceneties to authoritive figures
and giving the finger to your figurative leadership
seeing change, up close, blurred through the kaleidoscope of constancy
I took being alive and well for granted
Now I get to drink a little too much water and breathe stale air alone and awake into and through all the hours of the night
So here's a toast- to all those that roast on the inside with me-
and to the (not so) innocent millions passing by-
my plastic sippy cup is raised still-
no one thinks of us
but we're here

16 Oct 11

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i used no spell check on this, sorry for that
 — dvdsxr

It's really long, filled with self-symbolism and angst but I think there is a lot of fat on this that needs to be trimmed so that the reader can sink into the muscle.  You have so much going on that it's difficult to figure out if you have a point beyond your pain.

It's not too late for spell check.  Some disagree but spelling is one of the great tools of this craft, you simply must respect the words and do the very best you can.

I think I'll read this several more times, see what else I can find.  It's still not clear if you are an I or a We.
 — Isabelle5

A lot of rambling going on, but I like that.
It makes you think
 — faith

@isabelle5 - i agree about the fat! i'm open to suggestions... i find it difficult to cut any of it because this particular writing means so much to me. it was written during a very difficult time when i also had a TON of "what i really miss" going through my head when i also didn't sleep for about ten days. that said, i'm willing to trim it down and make it more accessible

@faith - rambling is what i do best, or most... guess it depends on the day. thanks for commenting and i'm glad if it made you think
 — dvdsxr